The Imperial Farms were a vast tract of land to the west of the capital, reserved for supplying the palace with the freshest vegetables, the most succulent meats, and the most fragrant rice. It was a place of tradition, where methods passed down for generations were considered sacred.
Into this bastion of agricultural orthodoxy walked Emperor Zhu Haolang, trailed by a horrified gaggle of ministers, eunuchs, and guards. He was dressed not in dragon robes, but in a simple, practical linen outfit he'd badgered the terrified imperial tailors into making. He looked less like the Son of Heaven and more like a well-off merchant's son on a gardening spree.
The chief gardener, Old Feng, a man whose face was a roadmap of wrinkles earned under the sun, prostrated himself in the dirt, trembling.
"Get up, get up," Zhu Haolang said, waving a hand. "You're the one who knows dirt. I just have… ideas. This is the plot?" He pointed to a section of land that had been specially prepared, well-drained and sunny.
"Y-yes, Your Majesty," Old Feng stammered.
"Good. Now, the sweet potatoes." The emperor gestured, and a eunuch scurried forward with a basket holding the precious, sprouting tubers. "We don't plant the whole thing. We take these shoots, these 'slips.'" He carefully broke off a vigorous-looking vine. "We plant these slips about a foot apart. They'll root themselves. And they don't need a flood of water, just consistent moisture. They're tough."
He handed the slip to Old Feng, whose eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and intense curiosity. No one had ever planted such a thing.
"And this," Zhu Haolang said, picking up a kernel of corn, "is even simpler. We poke a hole, drop in two kernels—in case one doesn't sprout—cover it up, and space the holes about this far apart." He demonstrated with his feet, ignoring the way his ministers flinched at their emperor using his imperial feet as a measuring tool.
For the next few hours, the Forbidden City's administrative heart ceased to beat. The Emperor of China was on his knees in the dirt, demonstrating hill-furrowing for potatoes and explaining the concept of nitrogen-fixing legumes to a captivated Old Feng.
"If we plant beans here next season," the emperor mused, brushing soil from his hands, "it will put good stuff back into the dirt. Makes it stronger. Saves on fertilizer."
Old Feng, forgetting protocol, stared at the emperor. "The… the dirt gets stronger? How?"
"Magic," Zhu Haolang said with a lazy, conspiratorial wink. "The magic of nature. Just do it. If anyone asks, it's an imperial decree based on a dream from the Jade Emperor. Works every time."
The court was scandalized. Grand Secretary Zhang nearly had an apoplexy. But they couldn't argue with the emperor who was, for the first time, genuinely engaged. And they certainly couldn't argue with the Jade Emperor.
News spread through the capital: the Lazy Dragon was not just handing out food, he was digging in the earth to grow new food. The refugees, whose lives had been saved by his porridge kitchens and work programs, began to speak of him with a reverence bordering on the religious. He wasn't just a distant ruler; he was the strange, kind emperor who got his hands dirty for them.