At noon, Li Daoxuan was in a rare state of peace.
One bowl of shredded pork with fungus over rice.
One hand on the mouse.
One eye on the screen.
One mouth doing its absolute best to chew and observe reality at the same time.
In other words—maximum efficiency, minimum dignity.
Because of this, he hadn't "co-sensed" into the box to personally stir up trouble. For once, he was behaving like a normal human being eating lunch.
The box's perspective was currently locked onto Xing Honglang's group.
They were deep in Shanxi territory, moving toward an area where conflict could erupt at any moment. This was not the time to look away. Li Daoxuan leaned closer to the screen, rice bowl balanced precariously on the desk like a ticking bomb.
The group reached a river.
From Li Daoxuan's god's-eye view, the so-called river looked… pitiful.
It was narrow. Shallow. Barely flowing.
"This?" Li Daoxuan muttered around a mouthful of rice. "This is a river? Looks like a badly drawn line on a map."
Inside the box, Xing Honglang raised her arm and pointed calmly.
"This," she said, "is the Fen River—the mother river of Shanxi."
Gao Chuwu nearly choked on air.
"…This? The mother river?"
He stared at the trickle as if it had personally insulted his ancestors.
"How many people does Shanxi have, then? A dozen?"
Xing Honglang smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried history's weight and disappointment in equal measure.
"It wasn't always like this."
Li Daoxuan paused mid-chew.
That tone—that was the tone people used when talking about fallen dynasties, old heroes, and hairlines that never came back.
Curious, he freed one hand, typed Fen River into his browser, and hit search.
Information flooded in.
Once upon a time, the Fen River was truly magnificent—its tributaries spreading across Shanxi like veins, nourishing farmland, supporting trade, earning it the title Mother River. There had been a saying: Ten thousand rafts descend the Fen.
Then came centuries of deforestation.
Then soil erosion.
Then silting.
By the Ming Dynasty, boats could only pass in summer and autumn. In winter and spring, people literally crossed it by piling dirt into makeshift bridges.
And now?
The Little Ice Age.
Relentless drought.
Chongzhen's fourth year, edging toward the fifth—midwinter.
All debuffs stacked.
No wonder it looked like a drainage ditch having an identity crisis.
Inside the box, Xing Honglang continued, pointing downstream.
"Don't underestimate it. From the Yellow River through Hejin County, all the way to Pingyang Prefecture. In summer, when the water's high, we can transport goods by boat and support Wang Xiaohua."
Li Daoxuan's eyes flicked to his map software.
"…Oh?"
He zoomed out.
Sure enough—the Fen River connected straight to Pingyang Prefecture.
His view inside the box hadn't expanded that far yet, which was why he hadn't noticed.
A thought quietly took shape.
Pingyang Prefecture currently had only Wang Xiaohua's forces stationed there. No other officials. No competing power.
In practice, it was already Gao Family Village territory—just without the paperwork stamped.
Grain was being transported by land.
Slow. Expensive. Vulnerable.
Water transport would be infinitely better.
Problem was—this river.
Li Daoxuan picked up a ruler and measured the river in the box.
Ten centimeters.
"…Wow."
Converted to real scale, the downstream section was only about twenty meters wide.
And that was downstream.
Upstream? Middle sections?
Probably one enthusiastic cow could block it by lying down sideways.
Li Daoxuan walked to his balcony, grabbed a small gardening shovel, and held it up thoughtfully.
"One scoop," he muttered, lining it up visually. "Just one scoop, and I could double this thing."
Then he frowned.
"…But widening alone won't help if there's no water."
Late Ming disasters weren't just about rebellion. Water scarcity was the real killer.
As he pondered—
Something felt off.
Inside the box…
It was raining.
Li Daoxuan froze.
"…Huh?"
This wasn't his doing.
No summoning.
No divine UI prompt.
No dramatic soundtrack.
Rain was just… falling.
In all his time watching the box—years of famine, drought, suffering—this was the first natural rainfall he had ever witnessed.
From his perspective, it was surreal.
The rain materialized from the underside of the box lid, cascading downward in sheets. A real downpour.
Inside the box, Xing Honglang's group stopped dead.
For people who had lived through endless drought, the sound alone was enough to stun them.
Their first instinct was immediate.
"Did Dao Xuan Tianzun send rain?"
They looked up.
No dragon heads.
No divine apparitions.
Gao Chuwu blinked. "Huh? No Dragon Kings this time?"
Zheng Daniu scratched his head. "That's… new."
Old Nanfeng snorted. "What's strange about rain? Have you all gone mad from drought? Rain is normal."
Zao Ying shot back instantly. "I'd believe that if you weren't flailing your arms like you're blessing crops."
Old Nanfeng froze mid-flail.
"…Habit."
They burst out laughing.
"Hahahaha—rain! It's raining!"
Li Daoxuan rapidly shifted perspectives, scanning wide.
Shanxi.
Shaanxi.
Upper Yellow River.
Rain everywhere.
It wasn't a miracle.
Just… weather.
Even during the Little Ice Age, the sky hadn't completely forgotten how to cry.
Li Daoxuan leaned back.
"With this," he murmured, "the Fen River's water level should rise."
He glanced again at the narrow channel.
"…Guess the shovel gets promoted."
Inside the box, the group trudged along in the rain.
Xing Honglang sighed. "If this river were navigable again, we wouldn't be suffering like this. We could sit on a boat, eat hot pot, sing songs, and drift straight to Pingyang."
Old Nanfeng laughed loudly. "Dream on. This river's been choked with mud for years. Boats? Impossible."
The rain above them suddenly lessened.
Old Nanfeng blinked. "Huh? Is it stopping?"
Xing Honglang frowned. "No. Something's blocking it."
Zao Ying shouted, "Look up!"
They raised their heads.
The clouds parted.
A colossal golden hand, gripping an enormous shovel, descended from the heavens.
The rain slid off its surface, completely shielded.
Silence fell.
"…Is Dao Xuan Tianzun," Gao Chuwu whispered, "digging?"
The shovel plunged into the river ahead.
With a single, casual scoop—
A mountain-sized mass of silt vanished.
The riverbed widened instantly.
The Fen River, silent for centuries, felt its throat open again.