"Strike first, and you control the field. Strike late, and you're controlled by others."
Li Shimin believed this deeply.
He believed it when he was still Prince of Qin.
He believed it after he became emperor.
He had lived by it his entire life.
"Make others move according to you, never let yourself be dragged along by them."
Li Jing admired this even more.
He treated it as the very core of military struggle: if you wanted victory, you had to seize initiative. There was no other way.
After watching the light screen, both Li Shimin and Li Jing realized something unsettling.
People of later generations cared about this idea just as much as they did.
They even gave it a name:
Seizing the initiative.
And only now did Li Shimin and Li Jing truly grasp how fierce that struggle for initiative had become in the future.
This was no longer a simple question of battlefield maneuvering.
The fight for initiative had clearly expanded into every possible domain.
Weapons manufacturing.
Schools of thought.
Commercial competition.
Even—very likely—agricultural techniques.
And beyond that, there were probably countless other fields they had never even heard of, all embroiled in the same invisible struggle.
Li Shimin fell silent for a long time.
Watching the future generations' long, bloody road toward maritime supremacy, he finally sighed.
"To avoid being controlled by others, one must act first."
"To act late is to be constrained. To never act at all is to become a slave—meat on someone else's chopping board."
"The tide rolls on… vast and unstoppable."
He sighed for a long time.
So long, in fact, that even the sacrificial offerings—normally something that always caught his interest—barely stirred his mood.
Yet Du Ruhui remained as meticulous as ever.
As usual, he lifted a small box that had already been prepared at the side and placed it carefully before the light screen.
He clasped his hands and bowed.
When he raised his head again, the box had vanished.
Li Shimin didn't mind.
He himself had chosen what went inside—just a token of goodwill.
It had once been a fine item presented by foreign merchants. He and Guanyinbi had marveled at its craftsmanship back then.
But now?
It was no longer useful.
Instead, Li Shimin turned his head slightly and said casually:
"Next time, why not have Sun the Medicine King write out a prescription and let the future generations dissect that?"
Sun Simiao's eyes lit up immediately.
"That would be wonderful!"
This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment whim.
Li Shimin had long seen how hard Sun Simiao worked at the Imperial Medical Bureau.
The Tang had Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui handling internal governance.
The Three Departments and Six Ministries were packed with capable officials.
Externally, the army was strong, with seasoned veterans above and rising stars like Xue Rengui and Pei Xingjian below.
Scholarship had the Imperial Academy.
Craft and innovation had the Directorate of Works.
Only medicine lagged behind.
At the Imperial Medical Bureau, there were pitifully few who could truly assist Sun Simiao.
And by Sun Simiao's own account, cultivating medical talent was even harder than training classical scholars.
Helping him a little was only right.
Seeing the smile on Sun Simiao's face, Li Shimin felt his own heart lighten.
He believed he had thought carefully about the future of medicine.
Surely the descendants would approve?
When the light screen slowly lit up again, Li Shimin saw two items placed prominently before him.
One was a glass bottle—something he had personally taken from the inner treasury and placed into the box.
The other was a thin sheet of paper.
At a glance, he saw the heading:
"Guizhi Decoction."
And the signature at the bottom:
Zhang Zhongjing.
There was no doubt about it.
A prescription.
Sun Simiao immediately grew restless with excitement.
He hastily clasped his hands toward Li Shimin, then rushed off to borrow paper and brush from Yan Liben, determined to copy it himself.
Li Shimin was left standing there alone, mouth hanging open.
"…Ah."
[By now, Wen Mang had grown used to this kind of life.
Gather materials.
Make videos.
Upload.
Then sit back and wait for big shots to throw tips at him.
After receiving the courier notice today, he retrieved two items—both small—which made him sigh in relief.
Running around under the banner of "research" was already troublesome enough.
If the items were too large, just carrying them around would be a headache.
Thankfully, back in Sichuan, that considerate woman Dongfang Ye had rented him a warehouse—normally used for artifact turnover—at a friendly price.
She even arranged professional door-to-door courier service.
And "professional" was no exaggeration.
Even though the cargo consisted entirely of replicas, the courier treated it with the same seriousness reserved for national-treasure-level museum pieces.
Luxury transport vehicle.
Infrared sensors.
Temperature control.
Internal surveillance.
Even the accompanying security personnel looked like they'd stepped straight out of an elite commando unit—so serious that Wen Mang almost felt embarrassed.
After all, if it did get robbed, it'd be like spending a fortune at Sotheby's on a Yuan blue-and-white porcelain bowl, only to flip it over and find four words at the bottom:
"Microwave safe."
At that point, you'd really have to question reality itself.
What made it even stranger was that Dongfang Ye had proactively bought several items at shockingly high prices.
High enough that Wen Mang seriously considered dragging her to a psychiatric hospital to register for a specialist appointment.
In his view, if you liked them that much, he could've just given them to her.
Just tip a few more coins—problem solved.
But Dongfang Ye only shook her head and said, in the end, that she couldn't afford them.
Wen Mang chalked it up to rich-people quirks.
After all, the money transferred was very real.
Shaking his head to clear those thoughts, Wen Mang decided to record a short thank-you video for these two gifts.
—
"Hello, hello! This is Wen Mang, once again being fed by big shots.
Today we're doing a vlog—let's take a look at this batch together.
One bottle, one prescription. Your uneducated streamer happens to know a bit about both, so let's just chat casually."
—
After setting up the camera and lighting, Wen Mang put on gloves and picked up the bottle first.
Since it was a history channel, he mimicked archaeologists—authentic or fake didn't matter, the posture had to be professional.
—
"First, I've got to praise the craftsmanship here. This bottle is extremely faithful.
The prototype should be the famous Tang dynasty pale-yellow glass bottle with dish mouth and slender neck from the Famen Temple Museum.
This piece is a textbook witness to the Silk Road.
The hot-working techniques of the body were popular in the late Roman Empire, while the decorations combine elements of ancient Rome, Sassanian Persia, and early Arab culture.
Naturally, once we talk about glass, there's always a question:
Was ancient Chinese liuli actually glass?
Composition-wise, most liuli does count as a form of glass. The real difference lies in technique.
In the West, glassblowing had been in use since ancient Rome. Later, due to poor lighting conditions in Northern Europe, glass development focused heavily on transparency—to let light into buildings. It entered daily life relatively early.
In the East, liuli originated as a byproduct of bronze smelting. Combined with jade-worship traditions, it gradually developed as a jade substitute.
Hunan has unearthed many liuli bi discs—some even prettier than jade.
By the Ming dynasty, liuli was called 'medicinal jade' and inlaid into clothing and belts.
So if a time traveler went back and made transparent glassware, it probably wouldn't shock ancient emperors much. Crystal cups were rare, but not unheard of.
Unless—unless—you can grind lenses by hand and make a telescope.
If you can't, then please behave yourself and make opaque liuli.
If you can use chemistry to fire brilliant, gemstone-like colors, nobles will actually look at you with new respect."]
—
"Glassblowing…"
Zhuge Liang jotted another note into his notebook, tapping his temple thoughtfully.
Lately, there had been too many matters demanding attention.
He vaguely recalled glass workshops complaining about high failure rates.
He'd investigated back then but found nothing wrong.
Now it seemed the issue lay in using metallurgical casting methods.
"Lighting… it makes rooms brighter?"
Zhang Fei leaned forward with interest.
Zhuo Commandery lay in the north—he remembered well how dim winter interiors were.
If transparent glass could be made cheaply…
Just imagining those houses made his heart itch.
Liu Bei remained silent, quietly envious of the idea that transparent glass could enter common households.
He glanced at the government office windows.
Wood lattice, crisscrossed frames—crude by comparison.
He remembered wealthy households in Luoyang using silk to cover windows.
Extravagant, yet fragile.
In that moment, Liu Bei felt that even a tiny window could reveal the true condition of the people's lives.
—
"As for Guizhi Decoction…"
"Now that is truly impressive."
—
Zhuge Liang sensed it immediately.
Zhang Zhongjing, who had been quiet the whole time, stiffened at once.
On the screen, the prescription enlarged until the calm, steady handwriting filled the view.
Zhang Zhongjing remembered clearly.
Just yesterday, Military Advisor Zhuge had come to him unexpectedly.
"Divine Physician Zhang, do you have a prescription you're most proud of?"
After brief thought, Zhang Zhongjing had written out Guizhi Decoction and carefully explained its indications and contraindications.
He never imagined it wasn't for Zhuge Liang's own use.
Staring at the prescription on the screen, Zhang Zhongjing couldn't help growing nervous.
A thousand years apart.
Future medicine would be near-divine.
Would they even value this formula?
Reality quickly proved he'd worried too much.
—
["In the late Han, two great physicians were known to all: Hua Tuo and Zhang Zhongjing.
Zhang Zhongjing compiled the monumental Treatise on Cold Damage and Miscellaneous Diseases.
The book was later scattered, then reassembled and edited during the Jin dynasty into two works: Treatise on Cold Damage and Essential Prescriptions of the Golden Coffer.
The Golden Coffer contains Kidney Qi Pills.
After pediatric specialists refined it, it became today's famous Liuwei Dihuang Pills—mandatory equipment for men.
Guizhi Decoction comes from Treatise on Cold Damage.
It's honored as the crown of all formulas—the number-one prescription for cold damage.
Looking back, the chaos of the late Han was riddled with epidemics.
The value of this formula is incalculable.
Your humble streamer isn't some mystic master.
But from a modern pharmacological perspective, the logic of Guizhi Decoction is remarkably scientific.
If we treat illness as a war:
Ginger and peony manage logistics—boosting appetite, digestion, and vascular permeability.
Licorice and jujube provide direct supplies—quick nutrients.
Cinnamon twig uses the increased vascular permeability to accelerate circulation, raise body temperature, and induce sweating.
Logistics. Supplies. Flanking maneuvers. Main assault.
Each effect interlocks with the next.
This is a textbook example of practical medicine."]
—
Zhang Zhongjing's smile grew wider with every word.
Then—
The turn came.
—
["In ancient times, traditional medicine developed fairly well as a practical discipline.
There are records of dissections during the Spring and Autumn period, Wang Mang's Xin dynasty, and the Five Dynasties.
Around 1140 in the Song, Wu Jian even dissected fifty corpses with imperial physicians, producing Illustrations of the Five Organs—required reading for medical students.
No one realized it then, but that may have been when Chinese medicine came closest to modern medicine.
A hundred and fifty years later, Cheng-Zhu Neo-Confucianism rose.
Medicine sprinted headfirst into metaphysics—and never came back.
From that moment on, traditional medicine brushed past modern medicine…
And drifted farther and farther away."]
—
Zhang Zhongjing's smile froze.
"…Metaphysics?"
The term felt faintly familiar.
Zhang Fei remembered clearly and shouted helpfully:
"It means it looks like it explains everything from the outside—but once you step inside, there's nothing there. Just mouth work!"
Zhang Zhongjing's face went pale again.
"Yide!"
Liu Bei called his third brother's name—not loudly, but firmly.
Medicine was no trifling matter.
And now, Zhang Zhongjing's status as a divine physician had only been further cemented.
Seeing the old doctor's gloomy expression, Liu Bei hurried to reassure him:
"I will absolutely support Divine Physician Zhang in revising Treatise on Cold Damage and Miscellaneous Diseases and revitalizing medicine!"
His words rang with conviction.
Not that he was curious about those "mandatory-for-men" pills. Absolutely not.
Thinking of Zhuge Liang's strong support—and the two medical schools already established in Chengdu—Zhang Zhongjing finally felt some relief.
Still, he couldn't understand:
"Neo-Confucianism speaks of principle. How did medicine become metaphysics?"
Zhang Fei smacked his lips under his brother's glare.
"If Cheng-Zhu learning were really that great, would the Song dynasty have turned out like that?"
Zhuge Liang gazed upward, a hypothesis slowly forming in his mind.
What were Confucian scholars like?
When he'd studied the Salt and Iron Debates, the stubborn reverence-for-antiquity of the Lu scholars had practically leapt off the page.
Could Song Confucians—blending Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism—really shed that habit?
Zhuge Liang doubted it.
Still, he felt little need to complain.
From a modern perspective, exploring philosophy was like walking on the edge of an abyss—one misstep and you shattered completely.
Yet this led him to recall something he'd previously overlooked.
Lowering his head, he spoke to Zhang Zhongjing:
"Liang wishes to assist Divine Physician Zhang in revising Shennong's Classic of Materia Medica. May I?"
Pang Tong raised an eyebrow.
It felt like Zhuge Liang had once again pulled ahead.
But considering he himself knew nothing of medicine, he could only swallow his dissatisfaction.
Then a thought struck him.
…Do you even have time for this?
Zhang Zhongjing understood perfectly.
Shennong's Classic was both its strength and its flaw.
It compiled the best of early Han medicine—but also carried its baggage.
When Zhang Zhongjing first studied it, doubts had already crept in.
According to the text, substances that granted longevity, lightness of body, or freedom from hunger were everywhere.
Some alchemical formulas even promised "transmutation into mercury."
Just one step short of outright ascension.
Now, he knew it was all nonsense.
Even as an introductory text, exaggerations and errors were everywhere.
Thinking of Song-era medicine's obsession with mysticism, Zhang Zhongjing suddenly felt a sense of mission surge within him.
He nodded solemnly.