Some knowledge is incredibly difficult to acquire on your own, yet once revealed, it seems remarkably simple. Gunpowder formulas are a prime example.

Take the simplest mnemonic: “One saltpeter, two sulfur, three charcoal, add a bit of sugar for a big bang.” Using the 16-liang-per-jin bronze scale of this era, the ratio of saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal is 16:2:3.

Sugar is added to increase gas production during combustion. When this gunpowder mixture detonates in a confined space, it’s akin to a miniature indoor nuclear bomb; even high-ranking officials like Yun Yang and Si Cao would likely be unable to withstand it.

Sulfur is readily available at the medical hall.

Charcoal is also simple to produce.

The so-called “earth saltpeter,” scientifically known as potassium nitrate, is essentially the efflorescence found on the surface of earthen walls. Ancient people obtained it by “digging at wall bases” when crafting fireworks and firecrackers.

Even now, Luocheng still has numerous houses constructed from a mix of brick and earth, and Chen Ji recalls seeing efflorescence everywhere.

The secret formula for firearms, which the Jing Dynasty’s military intelligence had painstakingly sought, would be better obtained from Chen Ji than from the Liu family.

What difficulty would various muzzle-loader blueprints pose for Chen Ji? Muzzle-loaders consist of a barrel, a chamber, and a tang. From small handguns to large gate cannons, Chen Ji had some familiarity with them.

However, the most critical factor was that ever since Chen Ji arrived, he had been constantly constrained by individuals like Yun Yang, Jiao Tu, and Si Cao, solely because he lacked the means to resist.

Now, he did.

The next moment, someone interrupted Chen Ji’s thoughts: “May I ask, do the three of you have any compositions to share? Why have you fallen silent?”

Liu Quxing and She Dengke exchanged glances, unsure how to proceed. After all, this was a literary gathering, and it was indeed inappropriate to come simply for free food and drink without any works of their own.

However, Chen Ji suddenly smiled and said, “We simply came with the invitation the Prince’s Mansion sent to the medical hall to enjoy the food and drink; we are not skilled in this art. So, please enjoy yourselves; we’ll take our leave. Senior Brother She, Senior Brother Liu, Little Zhang, the waiter at the restaurant opposite the medical hall, told me there’s a Mu Xinzai Noodle House on Zhenghe Street that makes excellent knife-cut noodles. I’ll treat you to them.”

With that, he turned and departed, showing no hint of embarrassment. If you can do something, you can; if not, you cannot. There’s no need to pretend for the sake of appearances.

Everyone has their specialized expertise. You understand art, and I also understand art… My art, however, might just be capable of dispatching yours.

Chen Wenzong and Chen Wenxiao watched Chen Ji’s retreating figure, serene and content. As he chatted and laughed with his friends, he seemed entirely unaffected by the literary gathering and showed no sign of having taken the recent events to heart.

He suddenly realized that Chen Ji wasn’t merely speaking in anger but truly had no intention of returning to the Chen family.

Yet, wasn’t the grand and illustrious gateway of the Chen family something everyone aspired to? How could anyone willingly abandon it?

At the banquet, Princess Baili turned to the Prince: “Brother, did you invite him?”

“No,” the Prince shook his head. “I don’t recall sending an invitation to the medical hall… but it’s not important!”

Princess Baili pondered for a moment, then suddenly stood up. “This is dull; I’m going for a walk!”

The Prince watched his sister’s retreating back, about to speak but stopping himself: “You…”

On the way back.

“Senior Brother She, why did you stand up for me?” Chen Ji asked, curious.

She Dengke walked along, his tall, robust frame seeming less imposing as he kept his head bowed. He murmured, “I almost harmed you yesterday; I apologize, I lost my head then. I ruined our two years of friendship; I truly deserve to die.”

Chen Ji then asked, “Were you only trying to save Chunhua’s life at that time?”

“There was also a selfish motive,” She Dengke confessed. “Chunhua said that if this matter succeeded, she would ask Consort Jing to betroth her to me, and we could live peacefully thereafter.”

Liu Quxing scoffed, “You believe everything Chunhua says? Your family is so poor; could she really abandon the wealth and luxury of the Prince’s Mansion for you?”

She Dengke retorted, “She’s not that kind of person… Chen Ji, please don’t tell my brother or my father about this. They’ll surely kill me if they find out.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Chen Ji said with a smile.

Liu Quxing, standing nearby, felt a touch of annoyance. “I don’t know what my father was thinking when he gave me this name. And I truly am a disappointment; how can I, supposedly a reincarnation of the God of Literature, fail to understand those classical texts? Now, when I introduce myself, I feel a bit ashamed to even say my name.”

To be a country boy in the morning and ascend to the Emperor’s court by evening—this was the greatest aspiration of scholars in the Ning Dynasty.

However, this was not Chen Ji’s dream.

What was his dream? His former ambition was to become a diplomatic military officer, but neither the Ning Dynasty nor the Jing Dynasty was worth sacrificing his life for, so he now found himself without a dream.

With no one and no place to protect, he could only barely ensure his own safety, swept along by the currents of this era.

Today, the terms “gunpowder” and “sword seed” held a fatal attraction for him.

When these two elements were placed on the scales, perhaps the scales of destiny would tip in his favor.

As he was contemplating, someone called out from behind him: “Chen Ji!”

Chen Ji looked back to see Princess Baili catching up, still dressed in her gallant attire, her white clothes and red pendant unchanged.

Today, however, she wore a silver-threaded cloud bun on her head, beneath which was a circlet of pearl beads that swayed as she walked.

Chen Ji asked, puzzled, “Is something the matter, Princess?”

Baili offered no explanation, simply waving her hand expansively: “Let’s go, I’ll treat you to dinner on Zhenghe Street—those knife-cut noodles you mentioned!”

With that, Baili led the way, hands clasped behind her back, her steps light and triumphant. Chen Ji watched, thinking she resembled a free antelope.

The three senior and junior brothers exchanged a glance, then Chen Ji suddenly said, “You two go ahead; I’ll go back to the medical hall and get Liang Mao’er…”

Fifteen minutes later, inside the knife-cut noodle restaurant, Princess Baili rested her arms on the table, propping up her chin, staring wide-eyed at the towering stack of bowls in front of Liang Mao’er. “Five bowls, six bowls, seven bowls… Chen Ji, this is outrageous!”

Chen Ji, however, smiled at Liang Mao’er. “You’ve eaten your fill tonight, so don’t eat so much tomorrow morning, okay?”

Liang Mao’er cautiously looked at Baili. “Princess… am I eating too much?”

Chen Ji stated seriously, “The Princess has a chivalrous heart, and we are all people of the jianghu. How could she possibly mind you eating a lot?”

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing; a bowl of noodles costs next to nothing!” Baili said, pulling out her purse with a slightly pained expression. “Still, you really can eat a lot… No wonder everyone else was drinking last night, and you were the only one quietly gorging yourself.”

Liang Mao’er awkwardly explained, “I don’t know why, but I’ve always had a big appetite since I was little. When my brother was ten, I was three, yet I ate more than him.”

Baili no longer dwelled on the matter. Since she was treating, she would do so generously.

After paying for the meal, she turned to Chen Ji and asked curiously, “They said such things about you at the literary gathering earlier; why weren’t you angry?”

“There’s nothing to be angry about.”

“Then, since I spoke up for you, can you stop charging me the toll fee from now on?”

“No.”

Baili became annoyed. “I’ll never speak up for you again! Let them curse you to pieces!”

Chen Ji smiled. “They can say whatever they wish, but time will prove everything.”

Liu Quxing, who was nearby, suddenly said, “Chen Ji, you can actually write poetry; I’ve seen it.”

“Hm?” Chen Ji paused, surprised.

Liu Quxing whispered, “I saw you secretly studying in the middle of the night, making notes on the back of medicine prescriptions. So, while you were sleeping, I secretly took a look at what you had copied, and I found half a line of poetry.”

Baili asked, puzzled, “What did it say?”

“Humans walk between heaven and earth, suddenly like distant travelers.”

As Baili recited this half-line of poetry, she felt as if she were walking alone through vast, snowy mountains, enveloped by twilight, an overwhelming sense of solitude washing over her.

That day, Chen Ji awoke from twilight to find people bustling in the streets, but he hadn’t waited for his family. That night, he casually jotted down a rough line of poetry, which Liu Quxing happened to see.

Baili slowly turned to Chen Ji. “This is your…”

Before she could finish speaking, a head popped out from behind them, exclaiming in surprise, “Chen Ji, is that your poem? If you can write, why didn’t you mention it at the literary gathering just now?”

Chen Ji was also stunned, seeing the Prince and the young monk right behind them. The main figure of the literary gathering had somehow snuck out — was he truly that careless?!

It was also somewhat strange: Did this world not have this poem? The allusion to the Double Ninth Festival was clearly identical.

He calmly and shamelessly replied, “This half-line was a spontaneous thought; I don’t have a complete poem. Besides, I have no interest in this field; poetry and literature are not my aspirations.”

The Prince pondered for a long moment, then suddenly rubbed his hands awkwardly and chuckled, “Um… don’t you want to make money? Could you sell this half-line of poetry to me?”

Chen Ji: “Huh?”

The Prince explained, “These past three years at Donglin Academy have stifled me. Those scholars write a poem every day—one when they see lotus flowers, another when they see moonlight—but I can’t even produce a single line. I know many of them call me a good-for-nothing Prince behind my back, and I’ve always wanted to write a poem to impress them, but I simply can’t… How about this: your half-line is quite profound. Sell it to me for ten taels of silver. I gain face, and you gain money. What do you say?”

“Deal!”

Writing poetry wasn’t necessary, but selling half a line of one… that was acceptable.