Now that there was a way to purify white salt and let the common people live better lives, naturally, it had to be used.
The Emperor Wei assigned people from the Salt Affairs Office to do this, saying the sooner the better—and the people at the Salt Affairs Office really did manage to produce the stuff within three days.
Of course, this first batch of newly produced white salt had to be for the royal family to use first.
But the Emperor Wei didn’t use it.
He brought the salt to court.
Clean and delicate white salt—every official at court was forcibly made to take a look, have a taste, and feel it out.
The Emperor Wei greatly enjoyed watching his beloved ministers be moved to tears.
Then, he called out a few who liked to grumble internally and had them compose a poem on the spot about white salt in front of everyone.
This was a rare thing at court—after all, the court was a place to discuss national affairs; writing poems was far too pretentious.
The ministers racked their brains, thinking of every way to praise the white salt again and again.But the Emperor Wei was still displeased.
Because they had praised the wrong thing.
In the end, it was Du Xing who stepped forward of his own accord and calmly came up with a clumsy, doggerel-style poem, which finally made the Emperor Wei break into a wide smile—
“White salt is good, the salt is white.
Eat it and feel great, body strong and right.
The people all praise it with joy and pride.
If you ask whose son made it bright?
It’s the ninth son of the royal line.”
It was truly a poorly written and mismatched poem.
Even if the ministers looked down on the doggerel Du Xing had composed, there was nothing they could do—after all, he was the first one to earn a smile from His Majesty.
The smarter ones had already picked up on the Emperor’s meaning from his attitude.
So, from that point on, the poems that followed mostly praised the white salt while also throwing in a few lines to flatter the Wise King.
The Emperor Wei was finally satisfied.
He didn’t care whether this act might give the ministers all kinds of misleading impressions—he purely wanted to give a little punishment to those who looked down on his precious Ninth Son!
The Emperor Wei actually felt quite upset about how the ministers disregarded Wei Yu.
He could disapprove of his unfilial son himself—but others weren’t allowed to look down on him!
The Empress picking and choosing among her sons in the past was one thing—he couldn’t do anything about her. But when it came to these ministers, could he not give them a hard time?
Didn’t they look down on Wei Yu?
Then he would make all those who did so praise him instead!
And just because of this petty move by the Emperor Wei, even while the production of white salt was still rushing to keep up, the entire capital quickly knew about it.
The poems composed live at court by the ministers—especially Du Xing’s awkward, clumsy doggerel—spread through every street and alley.
That poem was terribly crude. Anyone who had even read a few books of poetry was too embarrassed to even call it a poem!
But it had been praised by the Emperor himself—called “not bad,” even “well written.”
So what were the scholars of the capital supposed to do?
They could only heap praise on it mindlessly.
As for Du Xing himself, he not only didn’t feel ashamed in the slightest—he was quite proud of it. He went around telling everyone that he had written a fine poem that had been praised by the Emperor, afraid someone might not have heard.
The whole capital seemed to enter a brainless poetry contest overnight.
—
In Youzhou, within Qixian of Le’an Commandery, there was a place called Zhangjia Village.
Zhangjia Village was a well-known village in both Qixian and all of Le’an Commandery.
Not for any other reason—just because everyone in Zhangjia Village was a carpenter.
In this era where people treasured even broken brooms, whether it was carpentry or blacksmithing, any skilled trade was rarely passed on outside the family.
The people of Zhangjia Village had been carpenters for generations, and every household had its own unique techniques.
One household might specialize in making carved beds and cabinets, another in tables and chairs, another made farm tools, while yet another did vine-weaving crafts…
Everyone in Zhangjia Village had inherited their craft, and their work was known for being meticulous and earnest. In Le’an Commandery, they had a stellar reputation. You could say that as long as someone wasn’t too far away and had some spare money to spend on good wooden furniture, they’d go to Zhangjia Village to hire someone.
Zhang Jinbao was from Zhangjia Village.
Unlike his village peers with names like Daniu, Shitou, or Ergou, Zhang Jinbao had an unusually refined name.
That name had been specially given by his father after consulting a local scholar, hoping that Zhang Jinbao would inherit the family trade and become a man of success.
Unfortunately—
Things didn’t go as hoped.
Zhang Jinbao didn’t want to be a carpenter.
“You ungrateful brat! I dare you to say that again! You believe I won’t beat you to death?!”
Usually, all one could hear in Zhangjia Village was the sound of wood being shaved, but now it was unusually lively.
Outside one farmhouse, a crowd had gathered around the low picket fence, watching the commotion.
Someone, seeing the father and son chasing each other around the yard, even called out gleefully:
“Aiyo, Brother Zhang, Jinbao’s already at the age to get married in a year or two—why are you still chasing him around with a stick? That’s too much!”
“Brother Zhang, is Jinbao being disobedient again?”
“Jinbao, run faster! Your dad’s stick is coming down!”
Zhang Jinbao was a tall, strapping young man—stronger than anyone else present. As his father chased him around the yard with a stick, he didn’t look the least bit flustered. In fact, it looked more like he was teasing his father.
As he ran, he shouted, “Uncles, help talk my dad down! He’s gone crazy again!”
Father Zhang was fuming behind him. “You little bastard! Stop right there! I’m tying you up this time, no matter what!”
Whenever Zhang Jinbao came back from town, he’d basically have a fight with his father. The villagers were used to it—but this time seemed a little different.
The onlookers were curious.
“Didn’t Jinbao just come back from Qixian yesterday? What did he see in town this time to make his father this mad?”
“Who knows… Oh, right! A few days ago someone from Tiancheng Village came to me to order a cabinet—he told me the county was selling white salt, sold by the government. Something like 300 wen for two jin?”
“Yes, yes! I heard about that too! My wife told me last night—it’s in a bottle, and the bottle of white salt costs 300 wen!”
“What? A bottle for 300 wen? Did you hear that right?”
The people of Zhangjia Village were wealthy—wealthier than those in town.
If it weren’t for their constant need for lumber to make furniture, and the wide-open space of the village for work, they could’ve moved into the city to live.
So unlike regular farmers who used toxic salt, the people of Zhangjia Village mostly used green salt.
Since they were always buried in carpentry and rarely went to town, they didn’t hear much of city news.
But now that they heard about white salt, the crowd’s attention immediately shifted.
Zhang Jinbao, with sharp ears, caught on to what they were talking about. He darted away from his father and ran to the fence, nodding seriously.
“Yes, it’s white salt! The government posted announcements about it—a bottle costs 300 wen, and the bottle is called a glass bottle. It was invented by a prince of our dynasty!”