Chapter Three: Reorganizing Assets and Acquiring Potatoes

Chu Family Village.
There are about a hundred households here.
The village is fairly ordinary, but he is its master; in other words, all these people are tenant farmers under his family. Their lives are hard, but they manage to survive.

After strolling around, Chu Feng asked, “Uncle Li, where have all the villagers gone?”

Uncle Li replied, “Young master, the new regime of Chen has just been established, and everything is in disarray. Over half the men have been conscripted to build the palace, and the remaining elderly, women, and children are all out in the fields for spring planting.”

Chu Feng frowned in disbelief, “Forced labor in March? Only Yuan Gonglu could come up with such a foolish idea.”

Uncle Li’s mouth twitched. Such filial piety! Young master, perhaps you should take your medicine. You can’t seem to say three sentences without mentioning your father. You’re so filial, soon the grass on his grave will be three feet high!

“Come, take me to the fields,” Chu Feng demanded.

“Young master, your status is too noble to be sullied by entering the fields. The master would surely blame me for allowing it,” Uncle Li said anxiously.

“Lead the way!” Chu Feng shot him a glare.

Uncle Li dared not disobey.

“Oh, by the way, how many acres does our estate have?” Chu Feng raised an eyebrow, curious.

“About twenty-three thousand acres. Seven thousand are top-grade fields, ten thousand are medium, and six thousand are low-grade. In good years, the villagers pay over seven thousand bushels of grain annually,” Uncle Li explained with a hint of pride.

Chu Feng grinned. A proper little landlord, indeed—so wealthy. But when he thought of these good days soon to be ruined by Yuan Shu, he grew angry.

“Yuan Shu deserves death!” Chu Feng spat.

Uncle Li could only sigh.

——

Soon, they reached the farmland.

Looking out, there were few strong men; almost everyone working was elderly, women, or children. Elders wielded ancient plowing tools, turning the earth. Women followed behind, breaking up the soil with hoes, while young children began sowing seeds.

This was the most crucial step before sowing, improving the soil, eliminating pests, clearing weeds—all to maximize yield.

Chu Feng’s brow furrowed, and he scolded, “Uncle Li, are there no oxen for plowing? How much land can a household cultivate like this? Surely you know better!”

“Please don’t be angry, young master. We used to have several oxen, but they’ve all been requisitioned. The villagers have no choice but to use farm tools,” Uncle Li replied bitterly. But what could he say against Yuan Shu’s levies?

“Again, Yuan Shu’s meddling!” Chu Feng muttered helplessly. But one cannot fight the authorities, so he decided to bide his time.

He walked forward, gazing at these tenant farmers, their faces to the earth. Chu Feng sighed; the people suffer in times of chaos, all the more so under Yuan Shu’s rule.

Just as he was about to speak, two options appeared before him.

“1. Squeeze the tenants, raise rent to seventy percent, reward: blueprint for Quyuan plow.
2. Act for the people, reduce rent to thirty percent, reward: five hundred pounds of premium potatoes.”

Chu Feng’s eyes lit up. The Quyuan plow was useful, but its principle was simple—using a slanted surface to reduce resistance, as opposed to the current straight-pushing plow. He could probably figure it out himself.

Potatoes, though, were a high-yield crop. In later times, an acre could produce three thousand pounds; by current standards, two thousand pounds per large acre wouldn’t be difficult. Considering various factors, fifteen hundred pounds was feasible—about three thousand Han pounds, or twenty-five bushels per acre. Compared to the current yield of three bushels per acre, that’s an eightfold increase.

Moreover, potatoes are drought-resistant. Plant them now, harvest in June, fertilize, and they could produce another crop. Crucially, they could withstand the imminent drought.

This would be his foundation for fortune.

With that in mind, Chu Feng stepped forward. “Elders and villagers, I am Chu Feng, master of Chu Family Village. Yuan Shu’s forced labor during spring planting violates the heavens.”

“I understand your hardship. Therefore, this year, rent will be reduced to thirty percent. I will face these difficulties alongside you, and ask that you continue to work diligently.”

His words left the villagers stunned.

They looked at each other; their clouded eyes now shone with hope.

Thirty percent—a luxury.

“Young master, rent can’t be so low!” Uncle Li protested. Thirty percent was nearly a gift; it was being too generous!

“Why not?” Chu Feng rebuked.

At this, the elderly, women, and children finally came to their senses. An old man knelt fearfully, calling out, “Quick, everyone, thank the master!”

At once, all knelt and bowed in gratitude.

“There's no need for such ceremony. From now on, if you have any hardships, come to me at the estate—I will do everything in my power to help,” Chu Feng said, helping the old man to his feet.

Uncle Li could only lament. This was disaster! The eldest son of the Yuan family consorting with peasants? If Yuan Shu heard, he’d be furious. Young master, perhaps you should fall down again?

Having finished his announcements, Chu Feng hurried away.

Farming—centuries of accumulated wisdom. He believed he knew more than these villagers, at least in terms of experience, and could improve some tools.

“Uncle Li, do we have a blacksmith? If not, find some for me,” Chu Feng said as he walked.

“I’ll arrange for someone to look for blacksmiths right away,” Uncle Li replied.

…

Back at the manor, in the study.

Chu Feng concentrated, pen in hand, sketching on silk. The shapes were odd, but their purpose was clear enough—like a makeshift Quyuan plow, an improved double-plow for two oxen and three men, or a harrow for leveling the land. Simple tools, but he needed to build up his strength, especially food reserves.

If he remembered correctly, this year the Jianghuai region would suffer a severe drought—people resorted to cannibalism, a tragedy beyond imagination.

Yuan Shu would first lose to Lü Bu, then to Cao Cao. After enduring this drought, the Yuan clan’s foundation would be destroyed, and Yuan Shu would die in agony.

His best chance to expand his power was during this drought; with food, one could raise an army. With this in mind, he took out the potatoes—they needed to sprout first.

He also wrote down some historical events on silk, fearing he might confuse them later.

PS: Daily historical trivia—skip if you dislike.

“One man cultivates a hundred acres (small acres, about one-third of a modern acre), yielding a hundred and fifty shi of grain per hundred acres.” — Book of Han, Treatise on Food and Money.

“Land is divided into top, middle, and low grades. Top-grade fields can be planted annually; middle-grade every other year; low-grade every two years.” — Book of Han, Treatise on Food and Money.

Note: One Han pound is about half a modern pound; a shi as a weight unit is about sixty modern pounds, as a measure of volume about twenty thousand milliliters.

Note: The Han dynasty had no double-cropping. Some novels claim otherwise, but that’s conjecture. The main limitations are: First, timing—without harvesters, everything relied on sickles, which took time to cut, process, and dry. Second, land fertility couldn’t keep up; only top-grade fields could be planted annually, while middle and low-grade fields needed green manure to restore fertility.