When he woke up, Xiao Shuhan, a PhD in agricultural science, had transmigrated to the third year of the Zhenguan era in the Tang dynasty, becoming an unlucky farmer on the outskirts of Chang'an who was nearly starving to death.
It was hell mode from the start: years of severe drought, locusts on the way, and everyone in the village could do nothing but kneel and pray for rain, waiting to die.
At this desperate moment, Xiao Shuhan smiled instead.
“Locusts? Aren't those just protein on legs?”
“No water? You don't even know how to dig a well, and you still call this the fertile Guanzhong Plain?”
“Low yields? Just wait. I'll show you what a thousand catties per mu looks like!”
While everyone else was still chewing tree bark, Xiao Shuhan's village was already eating white-flour steamed buns and fried locusts. When swarms of locusts descended on Guanzhong, blotting out the sky, Xiao Shuhan led the whole village in a frantic money-making spree, raking in a fortune.
When word reached the Taiji Palace, Li Shimin, the greatest emperor of the ages, was so worried about the drought and locust plague that he was pulling his hair out. He could no longer sit still.
“Bring this man to me at once! I want to know whether he's a sorcerer or an immortal!”
Anyone can be the county magistrate, but there is no need to write Fang Yiai as the county magistrate.