Chapter 9

What does it take to establish an enlightenment school?

First, there must be a building large enough to accommodate at least a hundred children. At minimum, it requires a roof to shield from wind and rain, and walls sturdy enough not to collapse.

Second, the most basic teaching tools are needed. Ideally, brush, ink, paper, and inkstone—but given the current circumstances, gathering such items is nearly impossible.

At this very moment, simply finding a few sticks to hold and scratch a character resembling “person” into the ground counts as a small victory.

Finally, there must be a literate scholar—preferably more than one—capable of teaching the children to write and perform arithmetic, enabling them to grasp the most fundamental survival skills.

These conditions do not sound demanding. Compared to the grand academies of official schools, building such a school barely sets any threshold.

Yet, even these minimal standards are absent in the refugee settlements.

But the school must be built.

There can be no delay, and there is no time to wait.

Yes, the food shortage has been temporarily alleviated, but what about everything else?

There is barely any order here. Chaos still reigns, and beneath the surface lurk dangers and despair.

Patrol guards have discovered skeletons gnawed clean in the corners of the refugee camps; whispers circulate about the taste differences of “two-legged sheep” meat; every night, people vanish—where do they go?

As for Chu Yingzhao, she doesn’t even have the time to investigate each case, let alone punish them.

Everything teeters on the edge of losing control, especially the helpless children, who are the most vulnerable victims of this turmoil.

The school is more than just an educational facility—it is a sanctuary.

At this juncture, Qi Wangzhu’s district divisions and basic surveys come into play.

By compiling a provisional list of refugees, Chu Yingzhao finally obtains some basic data: there are currently just over a hundred children, mostly aged between seven and fourteen.

This is a reasonable number.

Younger children likely perished on the journey of exile; older children have long been pressed into labor, bearing survival burdens equal to adults.

More encouragingly, among the refugees, two literate scholars have been found.

Though their abilities likely won’t be impressive, at this moment, even a single point of competence is enough for the Empress to declare it sufficient.

They’ve come this far, especially during the New Year.

For now, this will have to suffice.

Zhang Yanli works efficiently and quickly selects a temporary teaching venue: an abandoned, dilapidated temple. Though its former grandeur has vanished, the broken walls remain, offering the most basic shelter for the school.

However, when he and his guards go to fetch the children, progress is far from smooth.

Of course, this is to be expected.

Given the previous regime’s ruthless policies, the people’s trust in the government is minimal. They have long been accustomed to exploitation and oppression, and every summons or order has ended in disaster.

Thus, when officials and soldiers arrive to take their children away, the refugees’ first reaction is naturally resistance.

Some parents flee with their children, others hide them, and some, braver, fall to their knees before Zhang Yanli, begging desperately for mercy.

When Chu Yingzhao arrives, she witnesses this very scene.

A man kneels at Zhang Yanli’s feet, voice choked with despair: “Sir, I beg you, spare my son! I will give myself in exchange! I will go willingly!”

Behind him, a woman clutches a frail boy, her gaze glazed over, but her arms tremble violently, as if holding onto her last hope.

Further back, a vacant little girl mechanically bows with her parents, expressionless, like an abandoned puppet.

Zhang Yanli, uncomfortable with such scenes, stiffly tries to soothe them: “This is not a misfortune, it is a blessing. They will not die.”

But such hollow words only deepen the refugees’ fear and despair.

The man lowers his head, fingers gripping the tattered edge of his clothing, inhaling deeply several times, trying to stop trembling. Then abruptly, he looks up, grabs the little girl behind him, and drags her before Zhang Yanli, teeth clenched: “Sir, take her... please take her! Leave a legacy for us common folk!”

The girl is roughly pulled but remains vacant, showing no reaction—as if unaware her fate has been so decisively sealed by her father.

Empress Chu sighs softly.

Feudal society, she thinks.

Objectively, this man has done well enough. To have brought his wife and daughter all this way is more than most men could manage.

After all, Chu Yingzhao glances down at the list—four-fifths of the children are boys. Female refugees are sparse, probably less than thirty percent.

That he has managed to reach the capital region with his family is remarkable. But his mindset remains of the era: the wife and daughter are mere dependents; the sons are the continuation of the bloodline.

This is both his tragedy and the era’s dilemma.

“Very well,” she finally speaks calmly, “the girl stays. You may leave.”

But her words feel like a verdict.

The man freezes, looks at her in confusion, then at the girl behind him—then, as if struck, hurriedly withdraws his gaze, grabbing his wife, trying to flee with their remaining child.

No one expected the woman to suddenly break down.

“I won’t go!” She thrusts the boy into the man’s arms, turns, clings tightly to the girl, and wails: “Sir, I won’t go! Can my little girl and I stay? I’ve already lost three—I only have these two left!”

Wonderful. The public’s trust level is zero. It seems this government is truly doomed.

“Very well.” Ms. Chu, CEO of the Mu Dynasty, inhales deeply and turns to face the crowd, raising her voice slightly: “If anyone else wishes to stay, please come forward. All children will be taken to the charity school, where they will begin learning to read and calculate this afternoon. Once your homes are settled, they may return after classes.”

Silence.

No one responds.

The refugees lower their heads, eyes filled with fear, suspicion, and numbness. They watch their neighbors and the dust on the ground, not daring to move.

Chu Yingzhao’s gaze darkens slightly, her expression still calm.

But the answer is clear—

Regrettably, no one steps forward.

The guards begin their task, leading these few toward the ruined temple.

The surrounding refugees say nothing, only watching in fearful helplessness, their eyes laced with quiet vigilance.

Chu Yingzhao stands still, her gaze sweeping over this desolate gathering place.

“It’s all right,” she tells herself silently, “there is still time. This is only the beginning.”

Based on her past experience, this work could be done better and more thoroughly, but before even starting, she has set her own standards—just barely passing is enough.

There is much to do, but so few hands and so little time.

First, solve the problem of existence; the rest can wait.

As she contemplates the next steps, she patrols the temporary camp, eventually stopping by the makeshift water boiling station.

Steam bubbles from an earthenware pot; soldiers pour freshly boiled water into distribution tubs nearby.

Several refugees at the front approach cautiously, using broken bowls and bamboo tubes to collect water.

But the supply is far from sufficient.

Her gaze shifts to the long queue stretching beyond sight, refugees jostling, some whispering, others sitting on the ground, dazed and helpless.

“Your Majesty, two bowls of water per person daily,” Zhang Yanli reports briskly after settling the children, “but the boiling pace can’t keep up with demand… many may not get even one bowl.”

Chu Yingzhao says nothing.

Her eyes move past the line to the riverbank, where guards lead in soaked refugees whose lips have turned pale—evidently caught drinking unboiled river water in secret.

“Sir, what about these people…?” a guard asks.

She frowns, observing the disorderly crowd.

She knew this was inevitable. The boiling speed is too slow, and the refugees’ patience will run out.

“Take them aside and warn them—next offense will be punished,” she orders, trying to remain composed. “Guard the water source. Under no circumstances are they allowed to drink directly.”

The guards withdraw on her command.

She lowers her gaze to the rudimentary clay stoves and the pot supports.

The flames burn fiercely but can boil only a few pots at once.

How long must hundreds wait?

She calculates swiftly, her frown deepening.

If this isn’t resolved soon, the boiling station will spiral out of control.

Refugees will either drink contaminated water and fall ill or fight over the boiled water.

Time is slipping through her fingers—disease and hunger won’t wait for her to devise solutions.

An image surfaces in her mind: a book cover describing a multi-layered, efficient stove design capable of heating multiple vessels simultaneously, maximizing fuel use.

But the exact structure?

She strains to recall the details: how bricks were arranged, how the flue was designed, how heat was directed…

She even remembers the page number and line position in the book, but frustratingly, not the precise data or proportions!

The Empress curses inwardly; the more anxious she becomes, the murkier her memory grows.

“Your Majesty?” Zhang Yanli’s voice breaks through her thoughts, noticing her sudden dark expression.

Chu Yingzhao waves him off, signaling him not to interrupt, as she struggles to piece together the fragmented memories.

At that moment, a familiar notification suddenly sounds:

[Side Quest: The Opening Chapter of Inches

· Objective: At an appropriate time, visit the Imperial Astronomical Bureau to meet with Bai Wenqing; through interaction, increase favorability.

· Rewards: Unlock Bai Wenqing’s exclusive side story; unlock technical modules and basic technical support.]