Chapter Seventy-Five: Commanding the Realm (Part Two)

He was stout, his voice full and resonant, and deliberately raised it to its highest pitch, instantly drawing all eyes toward him. He was about to add a few more words, intending to make Zhang Qian suffer a great embarrassment. Unexpectedly, Zhang Qian suddenly picked up two wine cups and, shaking his head, smiled at him.

“If it were Brother Lu, of course it would suffice to taste with your mouth!” Unhurriedly, Zhang Qian filled one cup with his own brewed chrysanthemum white wine, indicating to a servant to fill the other with clear water. Smiling, he explained, “As for myself, I use a pharmacist’s scale and two cups of equal size. The weight of alcohol is precisely nine-tenths that of pure water! To determine the alcohol content in a cup of wine, simply take an equal volume of water, weigh both, and the difference reveals the amount. If you doubt it, feel free to weigh them yourself!”

“Brilliant!” Bai Yunzi Sima Chengzhen, a devotee of longevity who daily dealt with pills and measuring instruments, was no stranger to calculating density. Hearing Zhang Qian’s words, he suddenly understood, “With this, we now have a reference for blending wine with medicine! As expected of a direct disciple of Qin Mo, young friend, your erudition is impressive! Such a simple method, yet it never occurred to me!”

“Brilliant! Brother Zhang is brilliant!” The crowd of young scholars, drawn by Lu Ting’s loud voice, nodded in agreement. Even if they were not skilled at calculation, they believed Zhang Qian’s method would certainly work.

Only Lu Ting himself remained unconvinced, waving his fat hand and loudly retorting, “Brilliant? How is it brilliant? The cups are so small—what difference could there be in the weight of a cup of wine and a cup of water? Where in the world is such a precise scale? Who can guarantee to weigh such light things without error?”

“If you cannot measure accurately, does that mean no one else can? You complain about the smallness of a cup—what about a liter, or a peck?” Zhang Qian replied curtly, sneering as he posed the question.

To the likes of Zhang Shuo, He Zhizhang, and Zhang Ruoxu—predecessors who once illuminated the history of Chinese civilization—Zhang Qian always maintained a measure of respect. Even if criticized by them, he would not grow angry or argue. But for Lu Ting, a scoundrel who relied on his family’s power to bully others, Zhang Qian had no patience. Seizing the opportunity, he made it clear: You are a fool, accept reality!

“You spoke of a cup just now—how did it turn into liters and pecks?” Lu Ting thought he had caught Zhang Qian out and raised his voice even louder.

“Brother Lu, you can use liters or pecks. The principle holds, regardless of the size of the vessel!” Unable to bear watching him make a further fool of himself, Zhao Zixiao gently tugged his sleeve and whispered a reminder.

“Nonsense! How could liters and pecks be the same as cups? What principle? If I give you a peck, can you tell which weighs more, wine or water?” Lu Ting ignored the well-intentioned advice, stubbornly arguing.

Seeing that he was hopeless, Zhao Zixiao could only bow awkwardly and step back. The other scholars also shifted away from him, lest they be mistaken for fools by association.

Since the Qin and Han dynasties, the Chinese valued passing down farming and learning. Most scholars’ families were landlords, and landlords, collecting rent annually from tenants, always kept measuring vessels—liters, pecks—and large scales for weighing.

As Zhao Zixiao had said, with a small cup, measuring the difference in weight between wine and water could easily result in error. But when scaled up to a peck of wine and a peck of water, such errors became negligible. The principle remained the same as with cups. By measuring the weight of a peck of wine and a peck of water, comparing them, and relating it to the standard weight of pure wine, one could determine the exact alcohol content.

“You all know how to measure? You all believe what he says?” Realizing even those who had previously sought his favor were now quietly distancing themselves, Lu Ting finally understood he had embarrassed himself again. Yet he refused to admit defeat, stamping his feet and quickly changing the subject, “Even if you can measure precisely, what skill is that? It’s ultimately a useless trick!”

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“Whose child are you, to spout such nonsense? Blending wine with medicine to heal and save lives—how is that a ‘useless trick’?” Sima Chengzhen, passionate about longevity and alchemy, despised hearing those words. His white beard trembled with anger as he pointed his whisk at Lu Ting’s nose and rebuked him sternly.

Lu Ting, intent on troubling Zhang Qian, never expected to offend a Daoist master. Instinctively, he stepped back, gritting his teeth as he argued, “I’m not talking about you, Elder, I’m talking about him! Medicine wine made by you saves lives, but his chrysanthemum white is a useless trick! It’s made from grain, and the more alcohol it contains, the more grain is consumed. As scholars, instead of serving the state, he brews chrysanthemum white, taking food from the mouths of the people. If that’s not a useless trick, what is?”

This was pure sophistry. Who didn’t drink a little wine from time to time? If chrysanthemum white took food from the people, what about yellow wine and sweet rice wine?

Immediately, some frowned, wishing to defend Zhang Qian, but for the moment, they didn’t know how to argue. After all, brewing wine did consume grain, and in Tang times, many commoners still relied on wild vegetables and elm seeds to survive the lean months.

“Brother Lu, have you forgotten? This wine is also known as the ‘Heart-Measuring Ruler.’” As everyone was anxious and at a loss, Zhang Qian’s gentle voice sounded again, still polite and patient, as if a teacher instructing a stubborn child. “To the foolish and obstinate, brewing this wine seems a waste of grain. But to those who care for the world, brewing wine is not wasteful at all…”

“Don’t twist words! Someone already said it—drinking this, getting drunk, or drinking yellow wine, it’s all the same!” Lu Ting, wary from his last defeat, interrupted loudly, refusing Zhang Qian any chance to elaborate.

“But this wine can also save lives. Do you know that?” Zhang Qian glanced at him disdainfully and instantly raised his voice.

“Save lives? Without any medicine, just this wine?” Lu Ting was startled, nervously stepping back.

“As I mentioned earlier, when the alcohol content exceeds seventy percent, it harms the human body. Likewise, for bacteria—the ‘evil toxins’ doctors speak of—alcohol is their nemesis!” Zhang Qian stepped forward, towering over him like a giant over a dwarf. “If someone is wounded on the battlefield, washing the wound with strong wine containing more than seventy percent alcohol reduces the risk of infection by at least eighty percent. Even if the wound has already festered, timely washing with such wine will kill most of the bacteria, the evil toxins inside, and give the patient a chance to recover.”

Damn it, what’s wrong with being a liberal arts student? Even the little bit of middle school physics and chemistry in their heads is a crushing advantage in the eighth century! Especially since today, Zhang Qian faced an ignorant wastrel of the eighth century!

Immediately, Lu Ting was struck dumb. Head raised, his over-indulged eyes widened in fear as he retreated, like a demon confronted by a god.

All those around, including Sima Chengzhen, the master of alchemy, were equally shocked, mouths agape, unable to utter a word for a long while.

At this time, any small wound could easily lead to infection and festering. If the infection got out of control—what doctors called ‘evil toxins invading the blood’—it could be fatal.

Those with military experience, such as Zhang Ruoxu and Wang Han, were especially thunderstruck, their faces shifting from pale to flushed in a moment.

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In war, most soldiers did not die on the battlefield, but from infected wounds after the fighting. Thus, any army losing more than twenty percent of its men would lose its fighting power. If the casualty rate exceeded forty percent, the wounded would drag the army down, and without timely retreat, total annihilation was inevitable.

If chrysanthemum white with over seventy percent alcohol truly did as Zhang Qian claimed—reducing infection risk by eighty percent and killing festering wound toxins, doubling the recovery chances—it would not merely save a few lives, but transform the fate of all Tang soldiers.

After all, in battle, victory depended not only on the general’s strategy, but more crucially on whether the veterans could perform.

New recruits, no matter how robust, would often miss opportunities or blunder from nervousness and fear, running about like headless chickens. Veterans, however, knew how to seize chances, kill foes, and protect themselves.

Every veteran was once a recruit.

A recruit who survives a few battles, uninjured, unmaimed, becomes a veteran.

If the chance of wound infection and festering could be reduced by eighty percent…

“Yongzhao, is this true? Are you not simply saying this to teach that fool a lesson?” After a moment of silence, Zhang Shuo’s voice rose from behind Zhang Qian, trembling with hope.

“Yongzhao, think carefully—this matters greatly! This is no time for jokes!” Even as he cared for Zhang Qian, Zhang Ruoxu dared not be careless now, eyes reddened as he rushed forward, gripping Zhang Qian’s shoulder. “I was once the Commandant of Guan Prefecture. There is no jest in the army!”

“Brother Yongzhao, you are newly out of the mountains. The tools here in Tang may differ from those in your mountain home!” Zhang Xu, always thoughtful, offered an escape in case Zhang Qian wished to maintain face.

“Daoist Master, Elder Shi, Brother Bogao, there is no need to doubt what I said,” Zhang Qian replied gratefully, breaking free from Zhang Ruoxu’s grasp and bowing to Zhang Shuo and the others. “I have already explained the method for measuring alcohol content. If needed, I can help brew wine with over seventy percent alcohol. You may select any livestock, wound their legs, dirty the wounds, then wash them with strong wine—after five days, my words will be proven true.”