Rubber.
Of all the strange gifts the heavens could drop into a half-modernized Ming dynasty, this one was basically cheating.
Dao Xuan Tianzun glanced at the glossy black block sitting in the Craftsman Well — the villagers stared at it like cavemen discovering fire.
"Go on," Tianzun said with a casual flick of his hand. "Touch it."
Song Yingxing stepped forward and pressed a curious finger against the block. His expression lit up like a scholar finding a lost classic. "Hmm. Softer than that 'plastic' material the Tianzun gave us, but tougher than the Immortal's statue. It's perfect — airtight, flexible, heat-resistant! Truly, a treasure of the Immortal Realm."
Tianzun smiled faintly. At this rate, these people will reinvent the Industrial Revolution before Newton is even born.
The two sculptors beside him straightened nervously. "Dao Xuan Tianzun, your divine hands are complete. Please, inspect our humble work."
He looked down. Both hands — sculpted, flexible, soft as flesh — moved perfectly. A bit floppy, sure, but serviceable. Like those bendy toys kids poke for fun.
He flexed his fingers, nodded, and stood up. "All right, everyone, back to work. I'm going for a walk. Alone."
A collective gasp. A divine stroll? The Heavenly Lord taking a leisurely walk down the street? It was like seeing Confucius pop by the marketplace for bubble tea.
Gao Yiye hesitated, then gathered her courage. "Dao Xuan Tianzun… may I accompany you?"
He paused, smiled. "Come."
Her joy was radiant enough to light a lantern.
So they walked — Tianzun in front, Gao Yiye a respectful half-step behind. Every motion of his silicone body was strange, soft, springy. Should've added a steel skeleton, he mused. Maybe a better spine. Or hydraulics.
He swung his arm absently and brushed her hand. She froze, wide-eyed, but didn't retreat.
A few paces later, Gao San Niang came striding toward them, muttering something about the Saintess meeting a man — until she looked closer.
Then, thud! She fell to her knees. "This humble one greets Dao Xuan Tianzun!"
"Rise," he said gently.
But Gao San Niang didn't move. She backed away like a villager retreating from thunder, breathless. Within moments her voice echoed through the street: "Dao Xuan Tianzun has descended to the mortal realm!"
And that was it. The news spread faster than wildfire in dry reeds. Everywhere Tianzun walked, people froze mid-task, eyes wide, then dropped to their knees as if struck by lightning.
He sighed. "At this rate, I can't even enjoy a casual stroll. Too many knees hitting the ground — it's bad for public morale."
Gao Yiye laughed softly behind her hand. "If you descend more often, they'll get used to you, Tianzun."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "Hmm. Tempting."
He hadn't created this body for sightseeing, after all. He already saw every corner of Gao Family Village from his divine perspective — every rice stalk, every forge, every gossip session. This little walk was just… curiosity. A chance to feel the world instead of simply watching it.
But now, seeing Yiye like this — eyes bright, heartbeat trembling between reverence and something unspoken — he wondered.
Perhaps one statue should stay here. Just one. For quiet afternoons.
"Yiye," he said suddenly, "shall we go hiking?"
Her smile was instant. "Yes, Tianzun!"
The Capital — Early Spring, Fourth Year of Chongzhen (1631)
The imperial court was cold enough to freeze a phoenix mid-flight.
Zhu Youjian — the Chongzhen Emperor himself — sat slumped on the dragon throne. Around him, ministers stood in uneasy ranks, their ceremonial silks too heavy for such air.
News had come from Shanxi: Wang Jiayin, self-declared King, commanded three hundred and fifty thousand rebels. The number hit the court like a cannonball.
"Three hundred and fifty thousand…" Chongzhen muttered, his voice dull. "More than my entire imperial army. If I had such men…" His hand clenched on the armrest. "The Manchu barbarians would've been ash long ago."
He forced composure, turning to the court. "Gentlemen, the bandit plague in Shaanxi and Shanxi grows worse by the day. What shall we do?"
Liu Jiayu, Shaanxi's Provincial Commissioner, stepped forward, bowing low. "Your Majesty, I bring a letter from Yang He, Supreme Commander of the Three Borders. He begs Your Majesty's attention."
"Read," said the Emperor.
Liu Jiayu unrolled the letter and began:
"The rise of bandits stems from famine — the people are driven to rebellion by hunger.
To suppress them is costly; to execute them is endless.
They scatter, only to rise again.
The only true path is pacification — give them land, cattle, and seed, and they will return to tilling the earth.
Money spent on suppression is lost forever; money spent on pacification feeds the empire for generations.
To save one life is to preserve one soul.
Once the people live without fear, rebellion itself will die."
The court fell silent. Even the Emperor's sigh sounded ancient.
Pacify the people, the letter said. But with what silver?
Trivia:
"Suppress or Pacify" — The Eternal Dilemma of Every Empire
The "Policy of Pacification" was one of those rare bright moments of reason in late Ming politics — and also one of the most tragically ignored.
Yang He (1561–1627), the real-life general behind the letter, had served in the northwest during the early 1600s, where endless droughts turned starving peasants into rebels. His argument was revolutionary for its time: don't crush them — feed them.
But the Ming treasury was emptier than a monk's wine jug. Officials preferred the cheaper option: execution and "suppression." Predictably, each "pacified" region flared up again a few months later.
Ironically, centuries later, both Chinese and Western thinkers rediscovered the same principle — that social stability costs less than military suppression. Modern economists call it Keynesianism; ancient strategists called it benevolent governance.
In short: history's most expensive policy mistake wasn't losing battles — it was refusing to pay for peace.