Chapter 84: White-Haired Innocence

Thanks to the public relations work of Six Spirits Floral Dew, the encouragement of Chrysanthemum White, and—no, under the wise leadership of the Divine Dragon Emperor of Great Tang, under the earnest care of the Empress Shuntian Yisheng, with the guidance and full support of the superiors in the Directorate and Subdirectorate of Ordnance, and relying on… (here, ten thousand words are omitted) (Note: The Divine Dragon Emperor was Emperor Li Xian’s posthumous title; Empress Shuntian Yisheng was Empress Wei’s posthumous title).

In short, in a span of just over twenty days, the first, second, third, and fourth alchemy furnaces of the Gunpowder Division at the Directorate of Ordnance of Great Tang were successively erected.

Each furnace boasted a capacity three times that of the first one built at Zhang Family Manor, and their exteriors catered to a certain someone’s peculiar taste, being identical to the Demon-Refining Gourds from the game. The gourd-shaped body sat atop a cauldron brimming with boiling water. Exploiting the lower boiling point of alcohol compared to water, the boiling bath vaporized the spirits, sending the vapor into a vine made of pure copper.

This hollow copper vine spiraled and coiled in the air, fully utilizing the ambient temperature to rapidly condense the alcoholic vapor within. The condensed liquid from the first Demon-Refining Gourd could be poured directly into the second, which would repeat the “water-bath condensation” process, transferring the mixture to the third gourd. After four cycles, provided the base rice wine was of decent quality, the distillate flowing from the fourth gourd’s copper vine would reach a concentration of seventy to eighty percent—more than sufficient for any incendiary or lethal purpose.

If raw materials and fuel could be supplied without interruption, and if all craftsmen worked in shifts, rotating through twelve hours a day, the daily output of the Gunpowder Division would easily surpass a thousand catties. In at most ten days, the original monthly target of ten thousand catties set by the court could be achieved.

However…

Blindly pursuing output was not feasible. Some of the alcohol was needed medicinally for cleaning wounds, requiring precise adjustment of concentration.

Moreover, in these peaceful times, when the empire was tranquil and rivers clear, it would be inappropriate to chase departmental achievements at the expense of breaking the centuries-old curfew tradition of Chang’an.

Thirdly, as pointed out by a fellow official in the Armory Division—who was so delighted to have received Six Spirits Floral Dew and a VIP card for his wife—tasks assigned by the court should not be overfulfilled by too large a margin; otherwise, higher-ups would become insatiable, and colleagues in other divisions would harbor resentment.

Thus, even to leave a good impression, one had to show restraint. Exceed the monthly quota just slightly, never by too much, and certainly not double. This way, the division’s performance would steadily improve, and the higher-ups would not set outlandish targets in the future.

Fourthly…

Fifthly…

To summarize: after erecting four Demon-Refining Gourds and estimating the daily maximum output, Zhang Qian decisively set the distillation hours from half past six to half past two each day. He also strictly mandated that every four days, the furnaces were to be shut down for inspection and maintenance to prevent accidents that could endanger the entire Directorate of Ordnance.

Thus, the Gunpowder Division’s monthly output was kept precisely at the benchmark. Officials and craftsmen alike, as well as colleagues from “brother units,” would all be satisfied. And Zhang Qian himself could, every fourth day, take a legitimate day off, staying home to research improvements to the production process, striving to maximize the power of “gunpowder.”

Of course, such improvements depended on the full cooperation of “brother departments.” For instance, the bronze gears, which no one in Zhang Family Manor or even the whole Weinan County could manufacture, were trivial in the eyes of certain master craftsmen at the Armory Directorate.

Similarly, the lift-type transmission rod—which Zhang Qian himself doubted could be made—proved, for these masters, less challenging than cutting gear teeth on a round copper disc. With a couple of apprentices and a few evenings’ spare time, they hammered it out.

With the full support of these craftsmen—whose skills would have been considered national treasures in the twenty-first century—the long-delayed windmill and well projects were back on the fast track, their parts manufactured almost in step with the Demon-Refining Gourds. Their precision and durability far exceeded Zhang Qian’s expectations.

Naturally, Zhang Qian provided the materials himself and paid the craftsmen handsomely—two bottles of Six Spirits Floral Dew each. His wholly-owned Six Spirits Trading Firm was a gold-laying donkey, raking in cartloads of copper coins daily. He had no need to risk trouble for the sake of skimming a few official funds. Furthermore, his two junior brothers, Guo Nu and Ren Cong, cherished this chance to serve in office, and would not permit anyone—including their senior brother—to jeopardize their futures.

“It’s not about the salary; it’s the official robe that matters!” Guo Nu never concealed his gratitude toward Zhang Qian, nor his views. “Those who bought their positions—now called ‘slanted seal’ officials—even if they purchase a real post, their origins are dubious. If a few upright men like Bi Gou stir things up, they’ll be dismissed sooner or later! But us, we may be low-ranked, but we were appointed properly. Unless we cause disaster, we only need to bide our time to eventually earn light crimson robes.” (Note: In the Tang dynasty, fifth-rank wore light crimson, sixth-rank dark green, seventh-rank light green, eighth-rank dark blue-green, ninth-rank light blue.)

Noticing Zhang Qian’s confusion, he lowered his voice and added, “Senior brother, don’t be fooled by how little power we have in the Five Directorates, or how we never see the emperor. People all over the empire scramble to get in. Why? Peace of mind! No matter how the political winds shift, they never reach us. And anyone willing to serve here has hundreds of acres of land at home. The annual exemptions from land tax and corvée for family members are worth far more than the salary!”

“That’s true. My stepmother used to despise me, wishing my father would drive me out to make my own way!” Ren Cong, like Guo Nu, deeply appreciated the benefits of office. “But since I took up my post—less than twenty days—she’s already sent the carriage seven times, inviting me back to the city house for dinner. She even hinted that, if there are vacancies, even the lowest clerks, I should look after my younger brothers. Not for the salary, just for the status of serving the court.”

“All right, I’ll keep an eye out. If there are openings, we’ll take care of our own first!” Zhang Qian smiled knowingly.

Plenty of money, little to do, high status.

Wasn’t this the legendary “central state-owned enterprise” treatment? In the twenty-first century, Zhang Qian wouldn’t have qualified even with a PhD, let alone just a graduate degree—yet here in the eighth century, with half-baked engineering skills, he’d landed one!

Silently thanking heaven for its favor, he began assigning tasks to Guo Nu and Ren Cong. The former would oversee daily operations of the Demon-Refining Gourds, the latter would test the final product’s concentration and blend medicinal alcohol to seventy to seventy-five percent. As for himself, he found an excuse, boarded a carriage, and headed home at leisure.

Zhang Jiuling’s advice on officialdom wasn’t wholly correct. If one was to “blend in with the dust and light,” one shouldn’t also be expected never to skip work, for fear the emperor would summon them and not find them.

In fact, as Zhang Qian had observed, from director to secretary, not a single person at the Directorate of Ordnance strictly adhered to the ten-day work cycle. After roll call each morning, everyone took turns slipping away—that was the norm. To sit in the “office” every day, being overly diligent, would only make one seem odd.

And as for the fear of being summoned by the emperor—that was even less likely than being struck by lightning. The emperor had his chief ministers and secretaries; why would he consult an “eighth-rank green parrot” about state affairs?

Zhang Jiuling was simply too devoted to the nation, forever imagining such once-in-a-century occurrences. But Zhang Qian had become an official only to avoid being pestered by minor clerks—he had no intention of following in those diligent footsteps.

So, once the distillation apparatus was running and he had figured out his colleagues’ “work” schedules, Zhang Qian resolved to do as they did—disappear after roll call every few days.

And today was the most crucial day for the drainage project at Zhang Family Manor. The first windmill and well assembly was about to be erected, and as chief designer and engineer, Zhang Qian had to be present.

Chang’an was not as large as modern Xi’an, nor was the traffic bad; twenty minutes after leaving, his carriage arrived at his estate.

Lifting the bamboo curtain covering the front of the carriage, Zhang Qian saw, in the distance, Steward Ren Quan leading almost all the men of the estate, gathered around a massive wooden base. Nearby, a simple “crane” towered above them, waiting for his return as master to hoist the main windmill components into place.

The crane was Zhang Qian’s own imitation of modern tower crane design, using only a winch, pulley blocks, a fixed boom, and a metal hook—not involving any precision parts. Even so, it had caused a sensation.

In recent days, not only the servants and tenants of Zhang Family Manor, but also people from the neighboring estates of Zhang Ruoxu and Sun Anzu, had come to see this marvel.

Today, it seemed Zhang Ruoxu was here again—his sturdy frame visible in the distance. Sun Anzu too, whose estate had also suffered from flooding, would surely copy any successful waterworks. Wait—beside Sun Anzu stood a familiar figure: taller and older than Sun Anzu himself!

Before Zhang Qian could look more closely, the old man at Sun Anzu’s side turned to face him, striding toward the carriage with surprising agility for his age. “Yongzhao, you’re back? Quickly, erect your windmill! I can’t wait any longer!”

It was Bi Gou!

Zhang Qian started, quickly ordering the coachman to halt, then leapt out and strode forward.

He had heard in the Directorate of Ordnance that Bi Gou, because of his petition to expel the ‘slanted seal’ officials, had been beset by attacks from all sides—even his childhood mischiefs had been dredged up as accusations. It seemed certain he would soon be dismissed from court.

Zhang Qian had been considering how to quietly pay his respects before the old man left. He had never expected that Bi Gou, even in such a moment, would have the leisure to come see his windmill and well!

“I have already seen the one-way sluice gate—it truly is a marvel!” There was not a trace of dejection on Bi Gou’s face, despite his impending exile. When he smiled, sunlight danced on his white beard. “I’ve lingered in Chang’an, not resigning, just to see your windmill and well. Yongzhao, assemble them! Quickly, have your men put them together! If—if they can truly pump water day and night as you claim, then even if I am sent to far-off Lingnan tomorrow, my life will not have been in vain for having come to Chang’an one more time!”