Kongming and Pang Tong sat unusually straight beneath the glow of the light screen.
Its cold radiance spread across the Chengdu government office, illuminating rows of bamboo slips, maps, and scattered memorials.
The atmosphere in the hall had gradually turned solemn, as though the entire office had become a lecture chamber for the greatest scholars under Heaven. Everyone present wore much the same expression.
Even Zhang Fei had been pulled into the mood. The mighty general, whose preferred solution to most strategic problems usually involved cavalry charges and shouting loud enough to shatter enemy morale, had somehow produced a writing brush and was stubbornly attempting to take notes alongside the others.
The screen had repeatedly referred to them as the "disappointed men" of history. As men who truly had been rejected by their era, they naturally understood the importance of agriculture and statecraft.
Which was why the earlier demonstrations of iron plows, waterwheels, irrigation systems, and improved farming tools had shaken them so deeply. Those were not merely clever inventions. Those were nation-building weapons.
Ever since entering Yizhou, they had personally witnessed the changes taking place in Gong'an and Jiangling. Fields that once struggled to feed their population now produced astonishing harvests. Refugees who had once wandered half-starved across the roads were beginning to settle down again. And behind all of it stood this bizarre future concept called science.
This thing called "science" was extraordinarily valuable.
At this point, nobody in the hall dared relax for even a moment.
Yet the first reaction from the gathered officials was not excitement. It was disbelief.
"This 'mathematics'... is it truly that important?"
The titles displayed on the screen were painfully direct.
The King of Science. The Mother of Science.
There were no elegant metaphors. No poetic restraint. But perhaps because of that simplicity, the words struck harder than any grand literary flourish.
To the scholars of this age, the meaning was immediately obvious. In the world of Confucian learning, the classics of Confucius and Mencius stood at the very center of civilization itself. And according to the future descendants, these mathematical treatises occupied the exact same position within science.
At that moment, Kongming finally understood the bitterness hidden beneath the narrator's tone, along with that faint sense of frustration over unrecognized talent.
Confucius gained eternal glory, his descendants enjoyed prestige stretching across millennia. But the scholars who created the foundational mathematical works that shaped civilization itself? Their names had vanished almost entirely from history. They suffered the same fate as the Wife of Chen Baoguang. Forgotten.
The people who changed the world disappeared into obscurity, while countless useless aristocrats enjoyed everlasting fame simply because they possessed the correct surname.
For a long while, Kongming and Pang Tong merely exchanged silent glances, both feeling a rare trace of shame rise in their hearts. At the same time, Kongming finally resolved a lingering doubt that had troubled him for some time.
"Now I understand," Zhuge Liang said softly while staring at the screen. "The future descendants praised the Tang repeatedly for military strength and territorial expansion, yet they rarely spoke with equal admiration regarding governance or scholarship."
Pang Tong understood as well.
The Tang Dynasty had inherited the structural debris of the previous eras. The old aristocratic factions were practically on their deathbeds. But because the Tang military was so absurdly overpowered, they accidentally created an environment so stable that those dying factions mutated into a new breed of scholar officials. They respawned, stronger and more parasitic than ever.
If you looked at it from that angle, the Tang Empire essentially survived for three hundred years purely on the sheer, terrifying momentum of its military. Without those heavenly generals carrying the entire faction, they would have collapsed in a single generation!
Now that they understood the true importance of mathematics, Pang Tong could not help imagining a rather absurd possibility.
Right now, Emperor Taizong of Tang was almost certainly watching this exact same broadcast. So what would happen after Li Shimin learned the true value of mathematics and engineering? Would that battle-hardened emperor immediately abolish poetry examinations and replace them with mathematical calculations?
Pang Tong nearly burst out laughing just imagining it.
Future Tang scholars would no longer compete over moon poetry and elegant prose. Instead, groups of exhausted candidates would sit beneath candlelight desperately solving equations while examination officials shouted for them to calculate faster.
Forget Poetry Saints. The Great Tang might produce Algebra Saints instead.
Since the future descendants clearly loved books and storytelling so much, perhaps he should prepare in advance and write a masterpiece himself. Something dramatic. Something legendary. Maybe a story called The Legend of the Tang Math Immortal. As for the pen name... Pang Tong rubbed his chin thoughtfully before grinning to himself. Emperor Taizong's nickname was Erfeng. And his own nickname was Fengchu. A Fengchu growing into an Erfeng sounded perfectly reasonable, right ?
Meanwhile, across the river of time inside Ganlu Hall, Li Shimin was in no mood to laugh.
He did not fully understand the deeper principles of mathematics, nor did he particularly care about complicated formulas at this moment. But he understood one thing with perfect clarity. Pure, burning jealousy.
"If the revival of mathematics and practical scholarship already began after the Northern and Southern Dynasties," Li Shimin said slowly, "then why did the Song dynasty harvest all the rewards?"
The light screen offered no immediate answer.
Instead, it once again mentioned the aristocratic clans and It delivered the verdict with ruthless efficiency: The Aristocratic clans. "Half of the empire's wealth flows into their private vaults."
Li Shimin's expression darkened instantly.
Was he, the Emperor of the Great Tang, merely working himself to exhaustion on behalf of those parasites?
The phrasing was so blunt that Li Shimin, who had spent the past two years enjoying relative peace after unifying the realm, suddenly felt the urge to put his armor back on, mount his warhorse, and personally remind certain noble clanss exactly who had conquered the empire.
Wealth and taxation formed the foundation of the state. If that foundation was being devoured by aristocratic leeches, then how could the empire possibly avoid collapse in the future?
At that moment, a silent consensus formed among the civil and military officials gathered in the hall.
The aristocratic clans, already weakened by generations of warfare, absolutely could not be allowed to recover their former power.
Du Ruhui's thoughts were especially clear.
Why obsess over family pedigrees? Why desperately imitate old powers like the Boling Cui clan? Why spend generations forging influence and manufacturing noble ancestry when one rebellion, one famine, one collapse of the dynasty could reduce the entire thing to ashes overnight? Compared to that, it was far better to build a flourishing age that future generations would genuinely remember. A name carved into a genealogy meant nothing. A name carved into history itself was immortal.
Without realizing it, many of the ministers had leaned slightly closer toward the light screen.
No one cared about mocking the Great Clans anymore. What they truly wanted to know was something else entirely.
If ordinary people were finally freed from aristocratic monopolies, then just how terrifying could they become?
Lightscreen]
[When discussing the Song dynasty, there are four inventions that simply cannot be ignored. Gunpowder, the compass, papermaking, and printing. Together, they fundamentally changed not only China, but the entire course of human civilization.
What makes this even more interesting is that most of these inventions did not actually originate in the Song. The dynasty inherited many technologies from earlier eras and then developed them to an unprecedented degree.
Take gunpowder as an example. Its original Chinese name literally meant fire medicine, which tells you almost everything you need to know about how absurd its discovery really was. Daoist alchemists searching for immortality spent centuries mixing sulfur, saltpeter, and various minerals together in hopes of creating an elixir that would allow them to transcend mortality. Instead, they accidentally created an explosive compound capable of blowing up the laboratory.
You genuinely have to admire the courage of the ancient Chinese alchemists. They looked at a violently unstable substance that burst into flames when heated and somehow decided that the logical next step was to consume it. That level of commitment to the pursuit of immortality was either heroic or completely insane. Fortunately for humanity, they failed to become immortals. Unfortunately for humanity, they invented explosives instead.
By the Tang dynasty, gunpowder was already being used in fireworks, incendiary weapons, and military experiments. The Tang court especially loved fireworks, and over time they became deeply connected to festivals and celebrations throughout Chinese culture.
But the true military transformation came later during the wars between the Song and the northern dynasties. Constant warfare forced the Song to push gunpowder technology forward at incredible speed. Under the pressure of survival, they began producing explosive weapons on a massive scale and experimenting with increasingly advanced battlefield applications. Fire arrows evolved into fire lances. Fire lances evolved into primitive firearms. Bombs, rockets, grenades, and early cannons gradually appeared one after another.
For the first time in human history, warfare began shifting away from pure muscle and cold steel toward chemical energy and explosive force. In a sense, the Song dynasty accidentally opened the first chapter of the modern battlefield.]
The projection shifted once more.
A Daoist priest appeared on the screen wearing elegant flowing robes, his sleeves fluttering dramatically as he stood before a massive bronze furnace. His expression was solemn and mysterious, carrying the air of a man about to uncover the secrets of immortality itself. The priest carefully tossed handfuls of strange minerals and powders into the furnace while attendants nearby watched with nervous anticipation.
Flames roared upward. Smoke curled into the air.
The old Daoist stroked his beard with profound confidence.
Then the furnace exploded.
The blast was so sudden and violent that the entire Ganlu Hall jumped in unison. The screen filled with fire and black smoke as the immortal master was launched backward out of frame. When he finally staggered back into view, his beard was gone, his robes were burning, and his face looked like an overcooked roast duck.
The contrast between his earlier dignity and his current appearance was so absurd that several younger officials nearly burst out laughing before desperately forcing themselves to hold it in.
Li Shimin's face darkened several shades.
He clearly remembered the screen previously hinting that he might become interested in alchemical pills later in life.
Was this the nonsense those charlatans had been brewing?
And it exploded randomly? Every single fraudulent Daoist peddling this garbage deserved immediate execution.
The scene shifted again.
A magnificent city gate illuminated the night sky while crowds of young people dressed in modernized Tang-style clothing pointed upward excitedly. Fiery streaks shot into the heavens like ascending dragons.
At first, the Zhenguan officials merely regarded it as a festive curiosity.
Then the sky exploded.
Countless fireworks detonated simultaneously, turning the night into artificial daylight. Cascades of multicolored light bloomed across the heavens in waves so beautiful that even the battle-hardened generals fell silent.
"This..." Empress Zhangsun whispered softly, her eyes reflecting the dazzling lights above. "This truly resembles a golden age."
Li Shimin and his generals stared upward in stunned silence.
Was such beauty really achievable by mortal hands?
Was this the potential hidden within ordinary people all along?
Fang Xuanling, seated closest to the screen, narrowed his eyes toward the small subtitle at the bottom.
"Luoyang. Ying Tian Gate. 2023 Lantern Festival Fireworks Gala."
Li Shimin's expression slowly changed as the camera widened. He recognized the gate instantly. That was Zetian Gate. No. More accurately, it was the gate he had once ordered destroyed before it was rebuilt in a later era. A second later, realization struck him. Wu Zetian.
The future must have altered the name because of the imperial naming taboo. Li Shimin's eye twitched slightly.
His descendants really had gone through quite an eventful period.
Meanwhile, the projection continued changing rapidly. Primitive fire lances appeared on the battlefield, belching smoke and sparks. Heavy cannons roared across later dynasties. Foreign soldiers with blond hair maneuvered gigantic artillery pieces larger than city walls. The Tang officials remained tense, but they still barely managed to maintain composure.
Then the true nightmare appeared.
Li Jing and Li Shiji stood up almost simultaneously.
A gigantic metal pillar rose slowly into the air surrounded by blinding flames and thunderous smoke. The earth itself seemed to tremble beneath the launch. The object accelerated upward at terrifying speed before vanishing into the sky.
The perspective shifted.
The metal weapon crossed mountains, plains, oceans, and clouds with impossible velocity. Finally, it descended toward a massive warship floating in the middle of the sea. A flash of white consumed the screen. When the light faded, the enormous vessel was gone. Only burning fragments remained scattered across the ocean.
The next scene showed a brightly lit chamber filled with strange instruments and glowing screens. Men in green uniforms with red-star insignias erupted into cheers as if celebrating a completed military campaign.
Li Shiji slowly read the words displayed beneath the projection.
"Dongfeng Express... Mission Must Be Reached."
His voice had become strangely dry.
For the first time in many years, genuine fear appeared in the eyes of the great Tang marshal. Not fear of defeat. Fear of irrelevance. Everything he understood about warfare suddenly seemed primitive.
This was no longer a matter of cavalry formations, supply lines, fortifications, or battlefield tactics, this was destruction descending directly from the heavens.
Li Jing's expression had also become extremely grave. If such a weapon targeted an imperial army headquarters, then no defensive formation in existence could stop it. Walls would become meaningless. Elite guards would become meaningless. Even the greatest general alive would die before realizing the attack had begun.
Ganlu Hall fell into complete silence.
The officials slowly recalled the ridiculous Daoist priest from earlier, the man who accidentally blew himself into the air while trying to invent immortality medicine. And somehow, thousands of years later, that same line of experimentation had evolved into a weapon capable of erasing entire warships from existence. The absurdity of it made everyone's scalp go numb.
Lightscreen]
[Papermaking and printing followed a remarkably similar trajectory. Cai Lun of the Eastern Han improved the papermaking process and drastically reduced the cost of writing materials.
Tang artisans later refined paper production even further and produced the famous Xuan paper, which became synonymous with high culture and calligraphy.
By the Song dynasty, however, the technology truly exploded forward. Song craftsmen experimented constantly with raw materials and eventually developed large scale bamboo and straw paper production, driving manufacturing costs down to levels previous dynasties could barely imagine.
At the same time, another quiet revolution was taking shape. During the Wei and Jin period, Buddhism and Daoism were locked in fierce competition for influence. Temples and religious communities desperately needed a faster way to copy and spread scriptures, commentaries, and teachings.
Under that pressure, woodblock printing gradually emerged and matured. What began as a religious tool eventually transformed into one of the greatest information technologies in human history.
By the Song era, cheap paper and advanced printing techniques combined into something unstoppable.
Books that had once belonged exclusively to aristocratic libraries suddenly became accessible to ordinary scholars. Confucian classics, agricultural manuals, medical texts, mathematical treatises, story collections, examination guides, and historical records flooded into the market in enormous quantities.
The Song even developed sophisticated multicolor printing methods, allowing illustrations and diagrams to be reproduced on a massive scale.
For the first time in history, knowledge no longer moved only through the hands of the nobility. Information spread across society at terrifying speed. Ideas traveled farther, literacy expanded faster, and the monopoly the Great Clans once held over education began to collapse completely.
In many ways, this was the true foundation of later global civilization. Once books became cheap enough for common people to buy, the world itself changed forever.]
Back in the Chengdu government office, the shock caused by the Dongfeng Express had left the entire room silent for a very long time.
The strategists who once believed themselves masters of warfare suddenly felt as though they had glimpsed a heavenly punishment far beyond human understanding. They had already seen fragments of future battlefields before, but this was different. The idea that such a terrifying weapon had ultimately evolved from a Daoist alchemist accidentally blowing himself up while searching for immortality medicine completely shattered their understanding of how the world worked.
Then Zhang Fei suddenly jabbed Kongming in the ribs.
"Kongming! Look! They're making paper!"
Kongming remained silent while carefully observing every stage of the papermaking process displayed on the screen.
The scene shifted once more to a Daoist priest enthusiastically carving characters into a wooden printing block. After applying ink and pressing paper against the surface, he peeled it back to reveal a perfectly printed page.
Again and again, he repeated the process before binding the pages into a book titled The Record of the Mysterious Elixir.
Kongming raised his feather fan slightly and pointed toward the projection, his eyes shining with confidence.
"My Lord, we are already close to achieving this ourselves."
The room immediately turned toward him. Printing was not an unfamiliar concept within Liu Bei's faction.
Ever since the workshops in Gong'an began expanding, Zhuge Liang had quietly organized craftsmen to experiment with carving techniques and large scale copying methods. Some specialized workers focused on relief carving, while others tested methods of cutting recessed characters into wooden surfaces.
At the same time, the paper workshops had already begun experimenting with low cost bamboo paper.
Only a month earlier, Zhuge Liang had even sent a formal letter to his wife requesting that additional paper artisans and craftsmen be transferred into Shu to establish a dedicated research workshop in Chengdu.
Yizhou possessed abundant bamboo resources, making it an ideal center for paper production.
For a brief moment, Kongming felt rather satisfied with his own foresight.
Unfortunately for him, the future once again proved that his imagination was still far too small.
The projection shifted toward an enormous building.
Beside the entrance stood several massive characters: The National Library of China.
The camera glided smoothly through the entrance.
Inside the Chengdu office, everyone froze.
Books.
Books everywhere.
Shelves stretched endlessly upward and outward, packed with more volumes than their minds could even comprehend. The camera moved through corridor after corridor lined with knowledge accumulated across thousands of years.
"Ancient Chinese History."
"Modern Chinese History."
"Classical Literature. Han Rhapsodies. Tang Poetry. Song Lyrics."
"Philosophy. Religion. Social Sciences."
Finally, the narrator delivered the final blow.
[The specialized archives alone contain more than six hundred and twenty thousand volumes.]
The officials of Chengdu nearly lost their minds.
The accumulated wisdom of countless generations floated right before their eyes, yet remained completely unreachable.
Pang Tong finally broke first. He pressed a hand against his chest and let out a pained groan before speaking in a voice full of bitterness.
"These future descendants are truly vicious people. They deliberately show us the greatest treasure beneath Heaven, yet they refuse to let us read even a single volume."
Liu Bei stared at the towering shelves with reddened eyes, looking almost delirious from the shock.
"If I had access to such a library," he murmured, "why would restoring the Han even be difficult? With that amount of knowledge, governing the realm and pacifying the world would become infinitely easier."
Zhuge Liang gave a hollow laugh and shook his head slowly.
"I swear to the heavens, I would willingly become a wandering ghost of the future if it meant I could remain inside that building forever. I would sleep among the bookshelves and spend eternity reading until my spirit dissolved."
The atmosphere inside the office instantly became bitter and miserable.
Since the founding of the Eastern Han, scholarship had stood at the center of elite culture. Their thirst for knowledge bordered on obsession. Looking upon that endless ocean of books, every person present arrived at the same conclusion.
There could be no greater treasure in all the world.
[Lightscreen]
[The invention of the compass dramatically accelerated maritime navigation during the Song dynasty.
But words alone are meaningless.
Instead... behold.
The Nanhai One.]