After transmigrating into a famine year, the first thing Lin Zhao does when he opens his eyes is calculate how many days his family can hold out.
One shi and six dou of grain, a creditor coming at noon; six mu of hillside fields where everything dies; two dou of good seed, the whole family's lifeline.
Luckily, he has a glowing illustrated book tucked against his chest: a fragment of the Divine Farmer's Compendium.
He tests seeds, identifies water, improves soil, makes compost, and digs irrigation channels. Other families rely on the weather to grow crops. He relies on his ledgers.
“Four hundred and twelve jin per mu?”
“I've farmed my whole life, and I've never seen a harvest like this!”
“The government granaries can't get three hundred jin from one shi, but one mu of yours yields as much as three of theirs!”
The county magistrate came to see. The prefect came to see. Finally, someone came from the capital.
Lord Zhou declared, “A dirt farmer won't be able to keep jumping around for long.”
Lin Zhao opened his ledger and slapped it down on the table, page by page.
“I can grow grain. And I can settle the accounts of this whole world, too.”
As famine left corpses strewn everywhere, golden waves of wheat stretched to the horizon in his fields.
Starting with six mu of hillside land, he built a grain depot on the northern frontier, then made his way into the capital's halls of power.
This time, the people who grow the crops will keep the food in their own hands.
