Chapter Seventeen: Zijuan's Ambition

"My lord, it is time for your medicine!" Zijuan carried a bowl of brownish-black medicinal broth, shuffling to the bedside. She used a pure silver spoon to stir the liquid gently.

"Leave it aside for now; I will get up and take it myself in a moment!" Zhang Qian, a damp piece of kudzu cloth pressed against his forehead, replied weakly without even opening his eyes.

Damn it! With so many vaccines and antibodies in his system, he had actually caught a cold just from practicing a few rounds of horsemanship and arm movements under the guidance of Wang Maobo!

The cold viruses of the eighth-century Tang Dynasty were clearly different from those of the twenty-first century. Back in his own time, even when Zhang Qian occasionally caught a cold, it was at most a cough or a runny nose; he would never be so ill that he couldn't get out of bed, nor would every joint in his body ache and throb like this.

It made him miss the Bafuning he used to ask the Ren family to help him sell. Although it was mocked as a "cure-all" in the twenty-first century, it was at least instantly effective at relieving the discomfort of a cold. In contrast, the eighth-century herbal medicine—even a prescription written by the famous imperial physician Sun Anzu after taking his pulse—showed no immediate results.

"My lord, time for your medicine! Come on, open up!" Seeing that Zhang Qian still refused to open his eyes, Zijuan brought the bowl over again, coaxing him softly, "It isn't bitter at all; I put rock sugar in it!"

"Put it down, I'll do it myself!" Zhang Qian replied faintly, slowly opening his sore, heavy eyelids.

"Oh no, the fever is severe; I'm hallucinating!" In the next instant, his scalp prickled, and he blinked instinctively.

A ghastly pale face, dark blue circles under the eyes, a blood-red gaping mouth, and two curved horns! The Rakshasa demon he had once seen on a television screen was standing right before him, and no matter how hard he blinked, it refused to vanish.

Furthermore, the Rakshasa was holding a bowl of medicine. The tips of the snow-white fingers gripping the silver spoon were stained a bright, blood-like crimson!

'It’s not a demon, it’s Zijuan!' A cold shiver ran down his spine, and the dizziness in his head receded by more than half. Zhang Qian struggled to control his arm, stopping his clenched fist half a foot from his chest, and scolded with a frown, "Put the bowl down and go wash your face and hands. You are a human being; why are you dressing up as a monster?"

"My lord, my lord, what are you saying? A monster? Where am I dressed as a monster?" The "Rakshasa" holding the bowl was startled, shrinking back with a look of grievance. "My lord, you must be delirious from the fever! Zhang Gui, Zhang Gui, hurry to the manor across the way and fetch Imperial Physician Sun!"

"Enough! By the time the physician arrives, I’ll have been scared to death by you!" Having confirmed that the voice coming from the "Rakshasa" belonged to Zijuan, Zhang Qian interrupted impatiently. "Put the medicine down, wash that mess off your face, and take those ridiculous things off your head. You're just a young girl; what are you doing painting your face like a wall?"

"This... this is what Thirteenth Aunt taught me! It's the latest fashion in makeup!" Zijuan felt deeply wronged, pouting her blood-red lips, which were painted far beyond their natural borders. "Everyone in the courtyard says it looks beautiful. Only here, with you..."

"Young Master," Zhang Qian rolled his eyes, correcting her feebly. "My parents are presumably still alive, even if I can't find them for the moment!"

"Yes, Young Master!" Filial piety being the highest virtue, Zijuan dared not argue further and changed her address with a sullen expression. However, she remained deeply skeptical of Zhang Qian's aesthetic taste. "Thirteenth Aunt said that Uncle Zhang from the neighboring manor likes it this way..."

"Uncle Zhang is nearly fifty, and I am only twenty-two!" Zhang Qian rolled his eyes again, his voice still weak. "What he likes cannot be the same as what I like. Besides, the youthful, radiant smile of a young girl is inherently the best makeup in the world."

"Yes, Young Master!" Zijuan didn't understand what "youthful and radiant" meant, but she understood the gap in age and preference between Zhang Ruoxu and Zhang Qian. She sullenly set down the medicine bowl and walked out of the room, her wooden clogs clattering against the floorboards.

"Find a pair of cotton boots to wear, or you'll get frostbite on your feet!" Zhang Qian's attention was drawn by the sound of the clogs, and he glared, scolding sternly, "Why are you wearing wooden clogs in the middle of winter? If the cold invades your bones, you'll be the one to suffer for it later!"

"Yes, Young Master!" Even though she had been scolded, Zijuan suddenly brightened up. She turned around, offered a quick bow, and then vanished out the door like a little deer.

"That girl is truly strange," Zhang Qian muttered to her retreating back, shaking his head helplessly.

She was so young that it was hard to feel any possessive desire for her beyond simple appreciation. Yet, her occasional naive probes and clumsy advances reminded him that their relationship was not, and should not be, merely that of master and servant.

Sometimes, Zhang Qian thought it wouldn't be so bad to have such a pretty, spirited young secretary by his side. At other times, his twenty-first-century moral values would awaken, leaving him feeling deeply ashamed and guilty.

Whenever the shame faded, Zhang Qian simply chose to let things be. "Forget it. In a few years, when she grows up, maybe she'll change her mind. Being a concubine is hardly better than marrying someone you love and being a proper couple!"

Then again, he reflected on how even in the twenty-first century, there were women who gained massive traffic and attention by advocating for becoming a warlord's mistress, and he couldn't help but wonder what choice Zijuan would make when she was truly an adult.

"Achoo!" A pungent herbal scent wafted through the air, making him sneeze immediately.

The chaotic thoughts in his mind were blown away with the sneeze. His brain cleared, and he opened his sore eyes to look at the medicine on the bedside table.

It was brown-black, with a faint hint of dark red. It wasn't clear, but it wasn't exactly murky either. As the air in the room stirred, it sent waves of scents like Agastache and Bupleurum into his nostrils.

"Whatever, I'll just treat it like Agastache water!" Gritting his teeth, Zhang Qian struggled to sit up straight. He held his breath and downed the entire bowl.

His stomach churned, but he managed to keep it down. Once the rolling sensation subsided, a warm feeling spread from his abdomen to his limbs.

Perhaps it was because Zijuan had distracted him, or perhaps the medicine was finally taking effect, but Zhang Qian felt his head was no longer as heavy, and the joints in his arms and legs didn't feel as sore as before.

He offered a silent apology to Imperial Physician Sun in his heart, struggled out of bed, donned a silk-padded jacket, and moved his chair next to the stove built for his own use, hoping to "sweat it out." As he sat by the fire, his eyelids began to droop once more.

"Knock, knock, knock..." A series of knocks shattered the silence of the room.

"Who is it?" Startled, Zhang Qian opened his eyes and turned toward the outer chamber, calling out through two doors.

"Master, it's me, Ren Quan!" A familiar voice came from the main hall. "Wang Maobo is here. He says he has an important item he wants you to see!"

"Wang Maobo? What kind of item does he want to show me?" Zhang Qian felt himself, confirming through the warmth of his jacket and the sensation of his fingertips that he wasn't dreaming. He struggled to his feet and walked slowly toward the main hall.

"It's an iron pipe he forged himself. He said that when we were riding the day before yesterday, he heard you mention it, so he made one to see if it was what you needed!" Ren Quan's voice came through the wooden door, sounding genuinely confused.

"An iron pipe? He actually made one?" Zhang Qian paused, a surge of unmistakable excitement welling up in his heart.

If the skilled craftsmen of the Ministry of War and the Directorate for Palace Buildings couldn't solve the problem, and yet this man had managed to do it just because he happened to mention it when he learned Wang Maobo's ancestors were blacksmiths, then this man was truly a brilliant hermit, and he had not been wrong to spare his brother's life.

With an iron pipe—even if it was a seamed, pressure-sensitive one—he could use brazing to create a simple heating system. Once that was done, the stove could become a radiator, and the heating efficiency, insulation, and hygiene would all jump by several levels.

He just wondered how, in an era where even iron sheets had to be rolled with a mill, this man had managed to turn thick iron sheets into a pipe. The man had always claimed his ancestors were blacksmiths from the Southern Dynasties who had fled to Goguryeo to escape war.

As he mused, the door to the main hall was pushed open by Ren Quan. Wang Maobo, whose face looked much older than his actual years, appeared at the threshold.

"Master, I have been fortunate enough to forge this object. I wish to offer the method of its creation to you, to repay the kindness of sparing my brother!" Without waiting for Zhang Qian to welcome him, Wang Maobo strode forward, bowed, and held up a half-zhang-long iron pipe with both hands.

"You really made it?" Despite his earlier anticipation, Zhang Qian was so happy he momentarily forgot his illness. He grabbed the pipe with one hand and examined it closely.

It was indeed a seamed pipe, and the seam was quite irregular. Although it had been treated with brazing and polished with a whetstone, it still looked clumsy and ugly, far inferior to the products of a twenty-first-century workshop.

But for the eighth-century Tang Dynasty, this was a rare breakthrough. At the very least, all the metal pipes Zhang Qian had seen in the Ministry of War and the Directorate for Palace Buildings that were under ten centimeters in diameter had been cast; no craftsman had ever successfully rolled one from sheet metal.

"The method is quite simple, so I did not write it down." Seeing that Zhang Qian approved of his work, Wang Maobo chose his words carefully. "First, the iron sheet is heated until red-hot. We find a corner, and from a circular hole in a stone, we hammer it through. Then, we hook that corner with an iron hook, attach it to a millstone, and while heating and hammering the sheet, we have an ox pull the mill. After about half an hour, the pipe is pulled directly through the other side of the stone hole!"

"It's that simple?" Zhang Qian was stunned, his eyes wide. He had scoured his internal database and failed to solve the problem, yet Wang Maobo had solved it with an ox.

"It is that simple! My ancestors were blacksmiths; they had done similar things. It was only in my father's generation that they felt being a soldier would lead to a better life, so they traveled thousands of miles to join the army in the Tang Dynasty!"

"So that's how it is!" Zhang Qian found it both interesting and ironic. He took the iron pipe and playfully spun it like a staff.

"Crash!" A decorative porcelain vase, half the height of a man, shattered instantly, blue and white shards scattering across the floor.

"Young Master, be careful!" Zijuan, who had just returned after removing her makeup to ask Zhang Qian to "inspect" her, turned pale with fright. She rushed forward, grabbing his arm. "You are still ill, don't move around. It's just a vase; with the New Year coming, it's good to hear a sound of celebration. Steward, hurry and have someone clean this up before the Young Master cuts his feet. Instructor Wang, take the iron pipe away and come back another day to teach the Young Master martial arts. He just took his medicine; he cannot be exposed to the wind!"

"Yes!" "Yes!" Seeing the expensive vase smashed to dust before their eyes, Ren Quan and Wang Maobo were so heartbroken they were distracted. They instinctively obeyed her command and hurried off to complete their tasks.

Zijuan, seizing the chance while Zhang Qian was stunned into silence, took his arm and dragged him toward the bedroom, her youthful face glowing with the thrill of victory.