When the old Marshal Gu was still alive, he would quietly set aside twenty percent of the Gu Family Army’s pay and rations every year—an emergency fund for unforeseen times. The Huben Army [Huben Army: the Imperial Tiger Guards, an elite force directly under His Majesty’s command] followed the same practice. Yet, unlike the Gu Family, they were far more valued by His Majesty, and their pay and rations were distributed punctually. Sometimes, they could even save up thirty percent, which was later handed out to the disaster-stricken people of Cezhou.
After explaining this, Lieutenant General Ni respectfully presented a booklet to Du Jingyi. The records within were meticulously clear.
Du Jingyi, having been raised in a merchant family, was no stranger to account books. Her eyes moved swiftly across the neat columns of figures, yet she did not miss even a single detail.
Shang Ji stood beside her in silence. In the art of leading troops, he could conjure ten thousand ways to defeat the enemy. But when it came to balancing ledgers, he would rather drill his men for half a month.
He said nothing, merely watching her with quiet admiration. The longer he observed, the deeper that admiration grew.
When Du Jingyi finally set the booklet aside, she already understood the essence of the matter. To put it plainly, the livelihood of the people in Cezhou depended almost entirely on relief—from the government, the Gu Family Army, or the Huben Army. If the people divided the harvest from their own fields evenly, they could scarcely keep half of it.
Cezhou had been plagued by turmoil for years. The land was thin, the hearts of the people unstable. Who could blame them for not tending their fields earnestly? After all, they could toil for a year, only to see their crops seized or trampled when war arrived. To farm in such a place was not perseverance—it was despair.
This was a far cry from the fertile lands of the four great granaries south of the Yangtze River [the four major rice-producing regions known for abundance and stability].
Thinking of this, Du Jingyi felt a faint heaviness settle in her chest. The situation in Cezhou was tangled beyond measure—unsteady hearts, barren soil, and endless calamities both natural and man-made. No matter how she viewed it, the path forward seemed an unsolvable puzzle.
She remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking in a calm, composed tone.
“Lieutenant General Ni, you’ve worked hard. I’ve understood everything in these records. If there’s anything unclear in the future, I shall trouble you again.”
Ni Yang clasped his fists and bowed. “Yes, Young Madam.”
With that, Luo Yuan escorted him out of Xitang Courtyard.
Sensing her mistress wished to speak privately, Yingtao quietly withdrew, leaving the couple alone in the warm, tranquil room.
Only then did Du Jingyi speak softly, her brows slightly knit. “General, if His Majesty were to discover that you’d diverted military funds—even for the sake of the people—it would still be a grave offense.”
Shang Ji looked momentarily startled, then smiled faintly at her worry.
“Rest assured,” he said. “I’ve already reported it to His Majesty. Every coin and ration was distributed in the name of the imperial family. Thus, the people’s gratitude belongs to His Majesty, not to the Tiger Guards.”
Only then did Du Jingyi’s tense expression ease. Though she had never endured the peril of court politics herself, she understood too well how precarious a minister’s standing could be. Those who commanded great armies were already subjects viewed with suspicion—if they also gained the hearts of the people, it would only make the imperial court uneasy.
Shang Ji could tell that her concern came from the heart, and his gaze softened.
“What does my lady think we should do about Cezhou?” he asked after a moment.
Du Jingyi was not one to shy from honesty. “I am not skilled in pacifying the people—that is a matter for you or the local officials. As for the barren fields, they can be reclaimed. But the root of the problem lies in trade. There is nothing in Cezhou that would attract caravans. Without goods of value, there is no profit; without profit, there can be no development.”
Her words were plain but piercing. From a merchant’s perspective, Cezhou was like a broken bone left by the roadside—stripped of meat and covered in dust. Who would bother to pick it up?
Shang Ji’s brows furrowed deeply. To him, Sui’an City might have been a glittering, treacherous court of intrigue, but Cezhou… Cezhou was home. One day, he would return there. And when he did, he wished to see a land at peace, not one that others dismissed with pity and disdain.
Yet hearing his wife’s clear-eyed analysis, even he could not see a way forward. A trace of regret stirred quietly in his chest.
Du Jingyi noticed his silence and the faint melancholy between his brows. She wanted to offer words of comfort, yet found them empty before they even formed. For such burdens, there was little comfort one could give.
So she simply sat beside him without speaking, accompanying him in the stillness.
After a long while, Shang Ji exhaled slowly and said, “I will write to Shao Shengming, the Prefect of Cezhou [Prefect: the highest-ranking local official overseeing a prefecture], and ask him to make preparations for disaster relief in advance.”
Du Jingyi nodded. “Good.”
They shared a quiet meal together at noon before Shang Ji departed the Duke’s Mansion. Where he went, she did not ask.
She, too, had her duties. Under her alias Yan Zhiqing, she needed to maintain the Du family’s influence in Jinling City [Jinling: present-day Nanjing, a major southern trade hub].
The northern farmlands had been ravaged by snow and frost; prices in the south would soon surge. The Du family specialized in such opportunities—buying low and selling high—and she needed to make arrangements before others acted first.
She pondered carefully, then took up her brush and jotted down a few items on a list—the goods that the Du family’s shops should begin collecting. When she finished, she handed the list to Li Zhu.
“Send this message to the north,” Du Jingyi instructed. “Tell them to have everything ready and return to Jinling before the winter month.”
“Yes, Young Lady.”
Li Zhu had long managed the Du family’s connections with their escort agency [escort agency: a merchant organization providing armed protection for trade convoys]. She herself oversaw secret agents planted within it, who would divide the goods discreetly once the message arrived.
By the time the supplies reached Jinling, the Du family would sell them, while the Yan family would buy. Once the transaction was complete, no one would ever trace it back.
After sending the message, Du Jingyi’s thoughts returned to Cezhou’s dilemma. A faint idea flickered in her mind—still fragile, not yet ready to take shape. She would wait until she could refine it further.
Then she picked up her brush again and carefully wrote a letter, sealing it before passing it to Yingtao.
“Take this to my father,” she said softly. “Tell him I have some matters for him to arrange.”
It was an old phrase between father and daughter, one Yingtao had heard countless times. She curtsied and hurried out of the Duke’s Mansion, heading straight for the Du family residence.
When all her instructions were done, Du Jingyi turned toward the window.
Outside, snow had begun to fall once more. She hadn’t even noticed when it started. This time, the flakes were thicker than before, blanketing the courtyard in a quiet silver veil.
In Sui’an City [a prosperous capital city under the Emperor’s direct jurisdiction], such heavy snow was rare. If it was falling so fiercely here, then the northern lands must already be buried beneath desolate white.
Her expression remained composed, but in her heart, she grieved for those innocent souls struggling against the cold.
Days slipped by swiftly, and before she knew it, the calendar had turned to the first month of the new year.
Since the onset of winter, all of Sui’an City had been shrouded in white. The Du family’s prediction had proved true—the snow came early and fell heavily, each storm lasting three to five days.
If not for the need to make a living, few families on the street would even dare open their doors.