Success, however, breeds envy. And radical change breeds fear.
A faction at court, led by the Minister of Rites, a deeply traditionalist and ambitious man named Liu, saw the emperor's unorthodox behavior not as brilliance, but as weakness and heresy.
"He neglects the sacred ceremonies!" Liu hissed to his allies in a secluded tea house. "He spends his time with peasants and dirt when he should be communing with the ancestors and upholding the Mandate of Heaven! These 'miracles' are not from the Jade Emperor; they are strange tricks from barbarian lands! He is allowing foreign filth to corrupt the Middle Kingdom!"
Minister Liu's strategy was subtle. He did not attack the emperor directly. Instead, he attacked through bureaucracy and tradition.
Requisitions for tools for the refugee-turned-farmers were "lost." Permissions to use more land for the new crops were tied up in committees for weeks. Rumors began to circulate among the older, more conservative scholar-officials: the drought itself was heaven's punishment for the emperor's irregular behavior. The new plants were cursed, they whispered. They would poison the land and the people.
Zhu Haolang first learned of the opposition when Minister Wang, his portly Revenue Minister, came to him looking more worried than usual.
"Your Majesty, the funds for the new irrigation channels in the northern prefectures… they have been delayed by the Censorate. They demand a full audit of the 'Food-for-Work' program, citing 'potential for corruption.'"
The emperor, who was being fanned by two attendants while sketching a design for a simplified seed drill, didn't look up.
"And Minister Liu has proposed a series of three-day-long rituals to appease the heavens for the drought," Wang continued, sweating. "It would require Your Majesty's presence for the entire duration and would drain the treasury of a significant amount of silver for incense, offerings, and…"
"...and silken robes for the priests, no doubt," Zhu Haolang finished, putting down his brush. He sighed. He knew this was coming. He'd read enough history to know that progress is always met with resistance from those invested in the status quo.
He could fight them. He could use his imperial power to force things through. But that sounded like work. A lot of exhausting, political work. It was so much easier to be lazy. And the laziest solution was to make the problem solve itself.
"Minister Wang," he said, his voice deceptively light. "Tell the Censorate they are welcome to audit. In fact, I insist. They will join you on a tour of the northern prefectures to see the program themselves. You will leave tomorrow."
Wang paled. "A tour? Your Majesty, the journey is long and arduous—"
"Precisely," the emperor said with a smile. "And as for Minister Liu's rituals… approve them."
"Your Majesty?!"
"Approve them. Grant him double the silver he asks for. But with one condition." The emperor's smile turned sharp. "The rituals must be held not in the Temple of Heaven, but in the drought-stricken north. In the very heart of the disaster. Minister Liu, as the proposer, must lead the ceremonies himself. He will travel there and stay until the rains come or the rituals are complete, whichever is longer."
Minister Wang's mouth fell open. It was a masterstroke. The Censors, comfortable in the capital, would be forced to see the success of the programs with their own eyes, shaming them into compliance. And Minister Liu, a man who adored his capital comforts, was being exiled to a dusty, starving province to perform endless, pointless rituals. He would either succeed and look foolish for wasting money, or fail and look impotent.
The emperor lay back down. "I'm feeling a nap coming on. See that it is done."
The months turned. Minister Liu, miserable and sunburned, chanted prayers to unresponsive skies in a dusty northern town. The audit team, after a jolting cart ride through the now-stabilizing refugee settlements and half-dug canals, returned to the capital humbled and full of praise for the efficiency of the emperor's programs.
And in the imperial garden, the plants grew.
The corn shot up, tall and green, surprising everyone with its speed. The sweet potato vines spread like a green carpet across the designated plot.
The day of the harvest arrived. The entire court, smelling a pivotal historical moment, gathered at the imperial farm. The air was thick with tension and curiosity.
Old Feng, under the emperor's encouraging nod, knelt and dug his hands into the hill of earth around a sweet potato vine. He pulled. The earth broke away to reveal a cluster of thick, pinkish-orange tubers. Not just one, but six, seven, eight of them, all decently sized.
A collective gasp went up. The yield was staggering.
Next, they moved to the corn. Old Feng peeled back the husk on a ripe ear to reveal rows of plump, golden kernels.
Zhu Haolang picked up the harvested sweet potatoes, piling them into a basket until it was overflowing. He then did the same with a basket of millet, harvested from a same-sized plot nearby. The difference was laughable. The basket of millet was half-full. The basket of sweet potatoes was brimming.
He turned to his silent, stunned court. "The northern soil is poorer and drier than this," he stated. "And yet, this 'sweet potato' will thrive there where millet fails. This 'corn' will grow where wheat withers. We will take every slip, every kernel from this harvest, and we will plant ten times the area next season. We will establish seed farms. And within two years, we will have enough to distribute to every province in the north."
He looked out at their astonished faces, from the proud Old Feng to the now-respectful ministers.
"This is not magic. This is not a dream. This is full stomachs," he said, his lazy drawl gone, replaced by a voice of iron certainty. "This is stability. This is the Mandate of Heaven, earned not by chanting in a temple, but by sweating in a field."
He picked up a single, perfect sweet potato and held it aloft. It gleamed in the sun like a lump of gold.
"This is how an emperor avoids rebellions. This is how he enriches his people. By being too lazy to let a problem like famine happen twice."
With that, the Lazy Emperor tossed the sweet potato to Minister Wang. "Have the imperial chefs boil, roast, and fry these. Let the entire court taste the future. And someone send a basket to Minister Liu in the north. With my compliments. Perhaps the sight of real food will inspire his prayers."
As the court buzzed with excitement, tasting the sweet, novel food, Zhu Haolang retreated to a shaded pavilion. The first arc was complete. The refugees were saved, the opposition was neutered, and the seeds of an agricultural revolution were literally in the ground.
He closed his eyes, the sounds of a revitalized court a gentle hum in the background. Being emperor was exhausting. But for now, the realm was secure. He had earned his nap. The next problem could wait until after he woke up.