‘Why is Jia Xu here?’
The girl’s mind immediately went into deep thought.
‘Surname Jia, given name Xu, courtesy name Wenhe.’
‘Considering Liangzhou’s population was barely a million, the likelihood of this being someone else with the same name was slim. This man was probably the infamous strategist of the late Han—Jia Xu himself.’
‘But then, why would Jia Xu be with Huangfu Song?’
After pondering for a bit, Mengde realized it actually made perfect sense for Jia Xu to be serving under Huangfu Song’s army at this point in time.
After all, Jia Xu was a native of Liangzhou, so showing up anywhere in the region wasn’t strange.
And given that he would later serve for years under Dong Zhuo, it was likely he had already begun his military career while young.
At this point, Jia Xu would only be in his early thirties.
His temperament hadn’t yet mellowed into the passive, withdrawn demeanor of his forties and fifties.
And given the chaotic state of Liangzhou, he probably didn’t even have the option to “lie flat” and coast through life.
Which meant he was still striving to earn merit and climb the ranks.
And in the Han dynasty, what was the most valuable kind of merit? Military achievements, of course.
That’s why Jia Xu was currently stationed in Beidi Commandery, serving under General Huangfu Song.
Beidi was a geopolitical hotspot, situated at the intersection of the Eastern Qiang, Xianbei, and Southern Xiongnu tribes.
The situation there was endlessly complex, and battles broke out nearly every month.
If someone wanted to earn military merit quickly, there was no better place.
Of course, high returns came with high risks. Serving in Beidi might let someone rack up merits fast, but it also meant constantly facing life-threatening danger on the battlefield.
To Mengde, Jia Xu’s decision to come work for her wasn’t strange at all.
First of all, no matter how merit-rich Beidi was, the speed of promotion there could never match having connections in the capital.
In the end, success in the imperial court always relied on who you knew.
Second, Jia Xu’s later reputation for cautiousness likely wasn’t something he developed overnight—it must have been a part of him even now.
But unlike later, when he could afford to lie low as a high-ranking advisor, he was still a minor official at the moment and had no choice but to take risks and work hard.
But if he had to take risks, then working under Mengde was certainly a safer bet than staying in chaotic Beidi, where a stray arrow from some barbarian could kill him at any time.
Moreover, if Jia Xu could make real contributions here, promotion would be far more accessible with Mengde’s backing.
So, when weighing the pros and cons, it made perfect sense for Jia Xu to jump ship and come work for her.
As for how Jia Xu had learned about her plan to assist the nomadic tribes—Mengde had never intended to keep that a secret.
She was about to mobilize a huge shipment of grain from Guandong to the north, and an operation of that scale could never be kept under wraps.
So if Jia Xu had made any effort to investigate, it would have been easy for him to figure out that Mengde had come to Beidi to meet with Huangfu Song for this exact reason.
Once Mengde sorted all of this out in her mind, a strange expression crept onto her face.
‘Wait a minute… aren’t the advisors gathering around me kind of odd?’
‘Cheng Yu, Jia Xu… Two out of the Three Great Poison Scholars of the Late Han. The chaos hasn’t even officially begun yet, and I’ve already recruited two of them.’
‘Sure, they ended up joining me historically anyway, but… isn’t this a bit too early?’
‘Don’t tell me… I have some kind of poison-attracting constitution?’
‘No no no, I’m a virtuous, five-star model citizen from the modern world! I’ve internalized the core socialist values. My morals are impeccable! There’s no way I’m some kind of “Poison King,” right?’
Mengde reassured herself with great confidence.
***
Meanwhile, on the other side, Jia Xu was growing increasingly uneasy as Mengde stayed silent.
Having never experienced any great political storms yet, Jia Xu’s mental resilience was still far from the legendary level he would later develop.
He was getting extremely anxious.
‘Did I say something wrong? Did I offend her somehow? Why isn’t she replying?’
Just as beads of cold sweat began to form on his forehead, Mengde finally spoke.
Her voice sounded like a chorus of angels in his ears.
“Sir, what guidance do you have for me?”
Mengde had come to a conclusion.
‘Poison King or not, who cares?’
Since one of the greatest strategists of the era—Jia Xu himself—wanted to join her, why in the world would she turn him down?
‘Only an idiot would say no.’
As for Jia Xu, upon hearing Mengde’s response, he was overwhelmed with joy.
“Sir, what would you teach me?”
That question alone showed just how much she valued him.
If she didn’t, this Miss Cao Cao could’ve simply tossed him a random position and called it a day.
There would’ve been no need to ask such a question.
But if he answered well, then a bright future awaited him—rising high in rank would be no problem.
If he answered poorly… then perhaps he really would end up just a scribal official under her command, like he claimed when he volunteered earlier.
Jia Xu took a deep breath and focused his mind.
***
A moment later, he remembered the task Mengde had come to Beidi Commandery to accomplish.
He cupped his hands and said to her: “Miss, in my opinion, your plan to aid the northern grasslands should be maintained long-term and gradually developed into an official trade agreement between both sides. This plan of yours could bring great benefit to the Han Empire.”
“Oh? And how so?”
Mengde raised an eyebrow and asked with a curious smile.
Jia Xu furrowed his brows, thinking carefully before answering:
“Your plan has many benefits. First, the Han Empire would gain a stable supply of horses from the grasslands through this trade.”
“Second, while the Han gains horses, the tribes of the grasslands will see their horse numbers reduced. Their strength will be weakened as a result.”
“Third, once regular grain trade is established, the tribes will no longer need to raid the Han border regions every autumn. This will bring peace to our frontier counties.”
“Fourth, trade between Han merchants and the grassland tribes has always existed, but it’s been informal and unregulated. Merchants often lack any sense of secrecy. Items like iron tools and salt, vital resources, are freely sold to the grasslands.”
“These iron tools, sold as farming equipment, can easily be melted down and reforged by the Xianbei into weapons and armor—turning them into tools for attacking the Han.”
“But if your plan is implemented and trade becomes officially regulated, the flow of strategic goods like iron and salt to the grasslands can be restricted. This gives the imperial court a method to keep the Xianbei under control.”
“Fifth, by tracking the amount of grain the grasslands purchase each year, we can estimate their population strength. This allows us to identify and strike against the more powerful tribes when needed.”
“Excellent, excellent! Wenhe’s five strategies—if you present them to the court, your appointment as one of the Nine Ministers will be within reach.”
Mengde couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction.
‘As expected of someone remembered through the ages,’ she thought.
‘To derive something so far-reaching from a single grasslands aid plan…’
This closely resembled the horse market system developed in later dynasties such as the Song, Ming, and Qing.
While the iron-blooded Song dynasty may have lived under constant pressure, it did leave behind an important legacy—the controlled frontier trade system, known as Quechang Trade.
To put it simply, Quechang Trade was an official system that regulated trade between the Central Plains and the northern grasslands.
Jia Xu had already mentioned why this was important.
The grassland tribes relied on the Central Plains for crucial resources—ironware, salt, tea, and more.
During the Han and Tang dynasties, these items were freely traded by private merchants.
With no restrictions, everything the tribes needed was handed to them in bulk.
Naturally, they were able to maintain long-term military pressure on the Han frontiers.
The Song dynasty didn’t dare fully use this powerful trade tool to restrict the Khitans—otherwise, they risked open warfare.
The system wouldn’t be fully implemented until the Ming dynasty, when it became formalized as the Horse Market Trade.
Through this system, the Ming dynasty not only imported horses in great numbers but also strictly limited the export of iron to the grasslands.
As a result, during the entire Ming era, the Han military never lacked horses, while the Mongols in the north experienced a steady decline in technological capacity.
At the start of the Ming, the Mongols still fought with iron weapons.
By the end of the dynasty, their weapons had degenerated to bone tools.
That’s why, during the reign of Cheng Zhen—even as the Ming teetered on collapse—the Mongol tribes on the northern steppe made no moves at all.
As for why this method didn’t work on the Manchu Qing, the blame lay with the massive illegal smuggling trade between Shanxi merchants and the Qing.
When the Qing came to power, they took the Horse Market Trade even further.
They no longer traded with a unified Mongol empire, but with scattered Mongol tribes—fragmenting the once-cohesive Mongol force into many small factions.
This prevented any single entity from posing a serious threat to the Central Plains.
To further control the economy of the Mongol tribes, the Qing issued large amounts of paper currency to the Mongol aristocracy every year.
These nobles could use the paper notes to trade in the official horse markets.
As a result, the Mongol nobles became completely dependent on the Qing.
After all, if they rebelled, their paper currency would instantly become worthless.
‘Might as well spend the money first—rebellion can wait until later.’
***
As for the commoners—transporting one shi (roughly 60 kg) of grain from the Central Plains to the grasslands consumed five or six shi just in transit.
The more people on the steppe, the greater the burden on Qing grain supplies.
So, to limit trade and reduce pressure, the Qing implemented their infamous population reduction policy on the Mongol tribes—keeping their total numbers below two million.
From Mengde’s perspective, while this policy did little for the prosperity of the Mongol people as a whole, it may have been the right policy for individual steppe dwellers.
If used properly, it could’ve been a form of good governance.
But the Qing used it to push the Mongols toward extinction—which was another matter entirely.
Still, controlling the grassland population was essential.
The environment on the steppe was just too fragile to support many people.
Throughout history, the northern grasslands could support about one to two million people at most.
When the population was around one million, the grasslands entered relatively peaceful periods.
When it rose to two million, a powerful regime would emerge.
At three million, the steppe would plunge into endless war due to resource scarcity—and wave after wave of invasions would strike the Central Plains.
Only after that number dropped back down to two million, and one dominant tribe unified the rest, would peace return to the grasslands.