The classroom erupted.
Not with applause—no, that would've been vulgar—but with the synchronized gleam of ambition igniting behind dozens of eyes.
"We will dedicate ourselves to our studies!" one student declared, chest puffed like he'd already been promoted.
"We will master these techniques as quickly as possible!" another added, voice trembling with hunger.
"We will advance to senior technical engineer!" they roared in unison.
It sounded less like a pledge and more like a sect oath right before a bloodbath.
Young Master Bai nodded calmly, as if fifty taels a month were a perfectly reasonable motivational tool and not a blunt weapon aimed at the heart of the scholar-gentry.
"Very good," he said. "Enthusiasm is precisely what you'll need."
He tapped the chalk against the board.
"You already possess strong blacksmithing foundations. What you lack is theory. Once you understand why the steam engine moves the way it does, you'll no longer be craftsmen—you'll be system builders."
Then he turned back to the board.
"Now, let us examine how steam pressure converts thermal energy into mechanical motion—"
Outside the window, Shi Kefa leaned in.
And leaned.
And leaned some more.
Minutes passed.
Words flew out like arrows—pressure ratios, rotational force, transmission efficiency—and every single one missed him completely.
He understood nothing.
Not "a little nothing."
Not "scholar humbly lacking."
Nothing nothing.
Worse—inside the room, those "unrefined commoners" nodded. Asked questions. Followed along. One even frowned in concentration like a man wrestling destiny itself.
Shi Kefa felt something inside him quietly collapse.
I have memorized the Classics since childhood, his soul whispered weakly.
I can compose policy essays under candlelight.
Why am I losing to men who used to hit iron for a living?
For the first time in his life, Shi Kefa experienced the horrifying realization that his knowledge had a very specific combat range—and this battlefield was not it.
He staggered away from the window.
Left the vocational technical school.
Stood in the sunlight like a man who'd just been informed that the civil service examination now included math.
One thought remained painfully clear:
This place can mass-produce skilled artisans. Quickly. Efficiently. Repeatedly.
Not geniuses.
Not once-in-a-generation talents.
But batches.
If even half of them entered production—
Shi Kefa didn't finish the thought. His chest hurt.
"Lord Shi."
He turned.
Saintess Gao Yiye approached, steps light, expression gentle—the kind of gentle that usually preceded a lecture.
"What do you think of the vocational technical school?" she asked pleasantly.
Shi Kefa hesitated, then answered honestly.
"…Extremely practical," he said. "If such a system could be implemented across the Great Ming, it would certainly—"
He stopped.
Froze.
His face darkened like he'd just walked into a political minefield and realized it was his own proposal.
Gao Yiye smiled.
"It seems Lord Shi has already realized why it cannot be widely implemented."
"…Indeed."
Shi Kefa exhaled heavily.
"Artisans are despised," he said bitterly. "Their status is low. Their wages pitiful. Many sell wives and children just to survive. Who would willingly choose such a path?"
Gao Yiye listened quietly.
Inside, she thought: Dao Xuan Tianzun was right again.
The court was full of intelligent men. Solutions were not absent. What was absent was the freedom to act.
Then—
A voice descended, casual and unarguable.
"Yiye," Dao Xuan Tianzun said, "give him an ideological and political lesson. The classroom version."
Her eyes lit up.
Oh. This? This I'm trained for.
She smiled—the professional smile of a teacher who had just been handed a very stubborn student.
"Lord Shi," she began gently, "have you ever considered this: advanced productive forces require an equally advanced political system."
Shi Kefa blinked. "Oh?"
"When a political system becomes outdated," she continued, "it does not merely fail to help progress—it actively shackles it."
Shi Kefa frowned. "Explain."
She gestured toward the school.
"The artisan system of the Great Ming is the answer. Artisans are impoverished, socially despised, and structurally suppressed. Naturally, fewer people enter the trade. Skills stagnate. Innovation dies."
She met his eyes.
"This is not an accident. This is the political system restraining productive forces."
BOOM.
The words hit like a thunderclap.
Shi Kefa stood rigid, as if struck by lightning mid-argument.
As a loyal minister, he rejected criticism of the dynasty on instinct.
As a rational man—
He had no rebuttal.
Hold firm, he told himself desperately. You've debated entire courts into submission.
He straightened.
"The court can reform!" he said. "We can elevate artisans' status, increase their pay. I will personally submit a proposal. Why does this escalate into criticism of the entire system?"
Gao Yiye laughed softly.
"Lord Shi," she said, voice sweet and sharp, "you know the court better than anyone. How many years of wrangling would such a 'minor reform' take? How many memorials would vanish? How many factions would sabotage it?"
She tilted her head.
"Would it truly be implemented?"
Shi Kefa flinched.
Strike two.
He clenched his jaw.
"Very well," he said, launching a new offensive. "If too many become artisans, farming declines. Grain output falls. How would the empire sustain them? Your village's model cannot scale!"
Gao Yiye nodded. "Then let me ask you this—why can our village sustain more artisans?"
Shi Kefa snorted. "Because you enjoy Dao Xuan Tianzun's favor! Celestial fertilizer doubles yields. One farmer feeds one artisan here. This is divine intervention—irrelevant to the court!"
She smiled wider.
"Oh," she said lightly. "But we produce the fertilizer ourselves now."
"…What?"
"Our factory produced sulfuric acid by accident," she explained cheerfully. "We used it to process phosphate rock. The fertilizer is slightly inferior to Dao Xuan Tianzun's original gift—but still vastly increases yield."
Shi Kefa stared.
She pressed on.
"And who do you think makes this fertilizer?"
"…Artisans," he croaked.
"Correct. Artisans improve agriculture. Improved agriculture supports more artisans. It's a cycle."
She paused.
"A virtuous one."
Shi Kefa made a sound somewhere between a groan and a surrender.
Internally, he already knew the truth.
The enfeoffment system alone drained the treasury dry. Officials had begged reform for years. Princes consumed wealth like bottomless pits.
But loyalty demanded blindness.
With nothing left, Shi Kefa clutched his final argument like a life raft.
"Do not forget," he declared weakly, "Gao Family Village is still part of the Great Ming! Your prosperity exists because of the imperial court. As the saying goes—whether thunder or rain, all are imperial grace!"
Gao Yiye blinked.
Then smiled.
"Lord Shi speaks truly," she said. "All is indeed Heavenly Grace."
"All is Heavenly Grace!" Shi Kefa echoed automatically—
And then stopped.
A chill crawled up his spine.
Because the Heaven she meant—
And the Heaven he meant—
Were very clearly not the same Heaven at all.