65. Grain

“This is impossible! It’s all an illusion!” As Li Miao’s uncle by marriage, Li Yin simply refused to believe that the granary held any real grain. He had always been in charge of this storehouse, and just two days ago, when he’d checked, there’d only been a mere hundred shi of grain—barely enough to feed a few thousand men for two days. Everyone had been wracking their brains, worrying over how to find more supplies. Yet today, the granary was full to the brim—was this not some trickery?

When his eldest nephew had asked him yesterday to deliver money to his residence, promising that he could purchase grain, Li Yin had dismissed it as nonsense. If it were so easy to buy grain, wouldn’t they have done so already? Even if he had managed to buy it, how could it possibly have been delivered so quickly? So the grain could not have been bought.

“Could it be that those sacks are filled with something other than rice?” Li Yin seized on this thought. It was a plausible explanation: his nephew, unable to produce real grain, had filled the bags with sand or stones to calm the people, staging the scene to quell unrest. In this way, the anxious citizens would be soothed, and their restless hearts would settle.

“So it was all a misunderstanding! We wrongly believed the rumors and maligned His Majesty—our granary in Jiangting is full of food!” The people, seeing the granary stacked high with sacks, were overjoyed. With these stores, they truly could survive. As long as they weathered this winter, they could sow seeds in the spring and look forward to a harvest, and with that, the promise of survival.

“Yes, there’s enough food for us! His Majesty is merciful, truly merciful!” The common folk had simple needs: enough to eat and a chance to live. The Yellow Turban rebellion had spread so far precisely because people were desperate—if following Zhang Jiao meant a full belly, who cared about kings or emperors?

“These must all be filled with stones and sand!” Li Yin grew ever more convinced of his own theory. He could not let his nephew succeed; if the unrest was quelled, he would have no choice but to submit to him and wait out his days in this forsaken place.

He was determined to unmask his nephew’s deception. Gritting his teeth, Li Yin rushed into the granary and even snatched a sword from a nearby soldier.

“Your Majesty, stop the Prince of Fortune at once!” Yang Hong, having observed the scene, shared Li Yin’s suspicion. He, too, believed the full granary was just a ruse to calm the people, with no real grain inside. Yet, unlike Li Yin, Yang Hong felt some relief—at least their young lord was no fool but rather a man of cunning, no longer a mere wastrel.

Seeing Li Yin’s actions, Yang Hong panicked. If Li Yin ripped open the bags and exposed the sand within, public anger would erupt into outright rebellion. Then, only bloodshed could follow.

“That won’t be necessary,” Li Miao interjected, stopping Yang Hong as he moved to order his men.

“Your Majesty, if you let him do this, your plan will be ruined! We’ll be exposed!” Yang Hong pleaded anxiously. “Someone, quickly stop the Prince of Fortune!”

“My plan? What plan? Exposed for what?” Li Miao smiled at Yang Hong.

“Your Majesty, we know all you’ve done is to comfort the people. But if the Prince of Fortune tears open those bags and the truth is revealed, we’ll be exposed as having no grain.” Yang Hong, desperate, rushed toward Li Yin.

“Who says we have no grain? Those bags are filled with food!” Li Miao shook his head and smiled.

“Impossible, impossible! Grain? How could it be? Where’s the sand? Where’s the sand?” Li Yin was utterly dumbfounded. With his sword, he had sliced open bag after bag, and instead of sand, pure white rice poured out.

“It’s all fine rice, all rice!” The townsfolk, witnessing Li Yin’s actions, saw the white grain spill onto the floor and felt a pang of heartache at the waste.

But in the next instant, their spirits lifted. All doubts were dispelled—those bags really did hold grain, and not just any grain, but fine white rice, not the coarse grains the common folk were used to. Coarse grain was full of husks and stones, but this rice was as white as silver and pure to behold.

“Your Majesty, is this grain real?” Yang Hong stared in disbelief. In times of chaos, food was more precious than gold—it was the one true currency. Even coarse grain was valuable, but this fine rice was worth several times more, since it took three pounds of rough grain to produce one pound of white rice. And now, His Majesty had produced so much of it, and intended to feed the people? Yang Hong felt reluctant—did these unruly folk deserve such bounty?

“Minister Yang, take a handful and see for yourself!” Li Miao laughed. Yang Hong refrained, but Li Yin grabbed a handful and stuffed it into his mouth. It was even more delicious than any he had tasted before.

Of course this was real grain—famed northeastern rice, in fact, purchased just last night by Liu Mang.

Li Miao cast his gaze at the screen before him. The “Taobao” tab had gone dark—it could only be used once a month. For his first use, Li Miao had bought a thousand shi of Wuchang rice.

The price was steep. He had exchanged five thousand gold coins for fifty thousand yuan, and nearly forty thousand of those were spent purchasing the rice.

He had even requested that the rice be delivered in unmarked cloth sacks rather than the original plastic ones.

Li Miao looked at his uncle, who now seemed like a clown, and smiled serenely.

“Well then, everyone, I believe my uncle, the Prince of Fortune, has already demonstrated that all of this is real grain. The granary is full, so do not heed the rumors that I would abandon you. Eat your fill! Pass my command: today, double rations will be distributed so that everyone may have a hearty meal!” At his words, the people burst into cheers.

“His Majesty is merciful, truly merciful!” They, together with Li Shu’s soldiers, had not eaten their fill in a long time—always hungry, barely surviving. Only the soldiers had enough to eat; the commoners had no such fortune. So this promise of double rations was cause for celebration, and in their eyes, Li Miao had won the people’s hearts.

Li Miao smiled and nodded at the crowd, then walked over to his uncle Li Yin. “Well, Prince of Fortune, are you convinced now?” he asked with a smile.

“How did you get so much grain?” Li Yin could not fathom how Li Miao had suddenly produced such a bounty. Yang Hong and the others were equally perplexed, looking to Li Miao for an explanation.

“I bought it, of course,” Li Miao replied as if it were obvious.

“Impossible!” Li Yin stared at him, unwilling to accept defeat without understanding. Within a hundred miles of Jiangting, who would sell grain? Even if someone did, there was no way to transport it overnight.

Li Miao sighed. “If I didn’t buy it, did my late father leave it to me?” he said sarcastically. His father, Li Shu—also known as Lord Gonglu—had left him nothing but a mess and enemies on all sides.

“My brother?” Li Yin wondered aloud. Could it be that his late brother had left a secret cache? Only Li Miao had heard Li Shu’s dying wishes. Knowing Li Shu, it was possible he had left something behind for his son.

“The old lord had a hidden granary?” Yang Hong was taken aback, then, like Li Yin, believed it. The grain must have been Li Shu’s secret reserve, meant for his precious son as a last resort.

“My brother, so it was all part of your plan to come to Jiangting,” Li Yin chuckled bitterly. He now believed Li Shu had chosen this broken little town precisely because no rival powers would covet it, thus sparing his forces. Had they seized a larger city, they would have only courted disaster.

“Your Majesty, all my scheming was to persuade you to go north. I have lost. Do with me as you wish,” Li Yin said frankly. He could not go north to Hebei now; his schemes and desperation had been laid bare for his nephew to see. He would not struggle against whatever fate awaited him.

“Your Majesty, although the Prince of Fortune nearly incited revolt, he harbors no malice toward you. He merely wished you to seek refuge in Hebei. I beseech you to spare his life,” Yang Hong pleaded, kneeling before Liu Mang. Li Yin, after all, had only wanted to secure a future for himself by forcing Li Miao north. He had never truly wished him harm. If he had, he could have split from Li Shu’s faction long ago.

“Your Majesty, please show mercy. We are too few as it is,” Zhang Xun added, kneeling as well. He did not overthink things, but understood that their forces were meager: only himself as a general, and Yang Hong and Li Yin as scholars. Killing one would be crippling.

“Your Majesty, the Prince of Fortune is still your uncle,” Huang Yi tried to appeal to Li Miao’s sense of kinship.

Seeing everyone plead for him, Li Yin could not help but be moved. He and Yang Hong had always been political rivals—even from the days of the Li Shu faction. After Yang Hong gained the upper hand, Li Yin was sent to the distant southeast, ostensibly promoted but in truth exiled from the heart of power. He had no fondness for Yang Hong. Yet here was his old enemy, the very man who might wish him dead, pleading for his life today.

Zhang Xun, the general, had no ties to him; Huang Yi, though Li Miao’s brother-in-law, had often been lectured by Li Yin in the past. Yet all three spoke up on his behalf.

Li Miao sighed. “Stand up, all of you,” he said, shaking his head.

“Your Majesty, unless you spare the Prince of Fortune, we will not rise,” Yang Hong replied, bowing his head.

“Do you all see me as so bloodthirsty a lord?” Li Miao smiled bitterly.

“Then Your Majesty means…?” Yang Hong’s eyes lit up.

“Uncle Li Yin, you should stand as well,” Li Miao said, pointedly calling him “uncle” instead of “Prince of Fortune.” Had he used the formal title, Li Yin’s fate might have been sealed. But by calling him uncle, he showed mercy.

“A criminal dares not rise,” Li Yin replied, bowing low.

“What is there to fear? If you are a criminal, what of the rest? What of Han Xian, Yang Feng?” Han Xian and Yang Feng were little more than mercenaries. Once Yellow Turban rebels, they had been granted amnesty by the court, supposedly to defend the emperor but in truth only to cause chaos. Defeated by Cao Cao, they had sought refuge with Li Shu. Yet they repaid his kindness by betraying him to Lü Bu, helping to destroy the Li Shu army.

“And what of Chen Lan and Lei Bo?” These two also betrayed Li Shu. If they had only deserted, Li Miao could have forgiven them—for when Li Shu declared himself emperor, he was abandoned by all. But these two not only defected, they robbed Li Shu on their way out, severing his last hope of escape.

“And then there’s Sun Ce, Sun Bofu!” Li Miao shouted, as if releasing all his pent-up frustration. To suddenly find himself in this world, surrounded by enemies, faced with hardship after hardship—it was a wonder he hadn’t broken down.

“Uncle, I know you want to go north and join Uncle Li Shao. But let me tell you: even if you go to Hebei, in two years at most, you’ll find yourself fleeing once again, just as you are today!” Li Miao said, recalling that his uncle Li Shao only outlived his father by a few years.

“Miao’er, why do you curse your Uncle Benchu just because you refuse to go north?” Li Yin protested. Li Shao was his uncle, a senior member of the family—how could Li Miao speak of his downfall?

“Uncle, I am not cursing him. It is simply the truth! He is not like my father—he has two sons!” Li Miao replied.

“Two sons?” Li Yin asked, confused. In these times, it was common enough for a man to have several wives and children.