Chapter 72: The Tang-Style Improvised Explosive

Regarding the overt and covert struggles that occurred during Xing’s birthday, not a whisper of rumor reached the outside world. Even within the Zhen residence, those aware of the matter could be counted on two hands, and as for the principal figures, they kept their lips sealed, maintaining the usual air of tranquility. Zhen Qian remained as inconspicuous as ever, almost as if he were about to be forgotten by his own family. When his name was occasionally mentioned, it was met with derision. Those who could not bear the injustice felt indignant on his behalf, while the spectators hoped for him to rise up and make a spectacle, and most simply kept their distance, unaffected and uninterested.

Amidst this, an unexpected rumor began to circulate: Zhen Qian was preparing to break off from the second branch of the Zhen family.

The news sent a ripple of uproar through the Zhen household. Some insisted the rumor was false, claiming that as the legitimate eldest son, only a fool would seek to divide the family. Others vehemently argued that Zhen Qian’s mind was indeed damaged, and staying with the family would render him useless. Still others carefully unraveled the situation, suggesting Zhen Qian had been treated unfairly by his kin; with his birth mother gone and his stepmother viewing him as a thorn in her side, it would be better for him to leave sooner rather than later.

Of course, most people were merely eager for gossip, keen to ascertain the rumor’s authenticity. Xing herself denied it outright, smashing a few cups in the process, vowing to expose and prosecute the mastermind behind the slander. As for those seeking answers from Zhen Qian, they were told he was not at home, having gone out to visit friends.

Yet, at the center of all this turmoil, Zhen Qian was leisurely hiding away in the Qin family’s valley, seeking respite from the heat.

As the dog days of summer began, the heat in the city of Zhending became suffocating—so intense that deaths from the heat had been reported. Zhen Qian could not say precisely how high the temperature had climbed; all he knew was that the towering city walls cut off the flow of air, turning Zhending into a giant steamer, like a miniature greenhouse.

After the recent events, the Xing family steward had become much more accommodating, bringing Zhen Qian some ice. Yet, the Zhen family’s ice cellar was never well-stocked, and though the steward harbored resentment, he withheld neither ice nor generosity. For Zhen Qian, accustomed to air conditioning, this summer was almost unbearable—he longed to spend every day soaking naked in icy water. So, he decided to retreat to the valley for a vacation from the oppressive heat.

He cared little for the rumors about splitting from the family, nor did he wish to know more. It was merely a signal sent out by Xing to test the waters and guide public opinion. To respond now would only add fuel to the fire; better to stay as far away as possible.

That day, Zhen Qian emerged from Zhen San’s bamboo house, yawning and weary. He had been in the valley for five days, three of which were spent without a wink of sleep; he yearned for nothing more than a proper rest. Yet, apart from himself, he trusted no one with this matter.

Zhen San followed him out, beaming with excitement and showing no trace of fatigue.

“Godfather, do you think we’ll succeed this time?”

Zhen San, seventeen years old, was once Song Yi’s grandson, Song Xu, and now Zhen Qian’s adopted son. If he belonged to a prosperous household, he would likely be a father himself by now. Yet this youth, who would be considered grown by modern standards, had managed to concoct a Tang dynasty version of a homemade bomb with Zhen Qian.

Saltpeter, sulfur, charcoal—the ideal formula was fifteen, three, and two. But when they began, they realized the raw materials’ granules and purity were far from ideal. This was Zhen Qian’s first attempt, in any life, at making something so hazardous. It would be a lie to claim he wasn’t nervous. The first homemade bomb left only a scorched mark on the ground, not even as loud as a modern firecracker.

Yet that muffled thunder stirred Zhen San’s fascination and heightened his admiration for Zhen Qian to unprecedented levels—even Zhen Qian, usually thick-skinned, felt his face flush.

Only then did Zhen Qian realize the difficulty of producing a Tang-era homemade bomb was greater than he had imagined. Fortunately, thanks to the barrage of information from modern media, he knew a bit about black powder chemistry despite not being a chemist. Had he been forced to research yellow powder, he doubted he could even touch the threshold before dying.

The first step was grinding, then refining. After removing impurities, they had to somehow turn the ingredients into uniform granules, so the explosion’s power could be maximized.

It sounded simple, but in practice, they lacked even suitable tools, forcing them to improvise as they went. To prevent static electricity, they covered the table with copper sheets and grounded them with copper wires. To avoid static from their clothes, both worked shirtless, as cautious and meticulous as possible. Still, a lapse nearly resulted in the first illegal safety incident in the Tang dynasty, almost sending both men to the afterlife.

It is said that ignorance breeds fearlessness. Before witnessing the explosion, Zhen San showed little interest in the “weapon” Zhen Qian described, thinking it was merely an attempt at alchemy—he nearly brought out the Supreme Elder Lord’s furnace.

To avoid accidental injuries, Zhen Qian designated one-third of the valley’s deepest area as a restricted zone, forbidding anyone from entering.

At first, no one paid much attention to Zhen Qian’s tendency to hide away in the valley, but the intermittent thunderous blasts from its depths soon made everyone uneasy. If not for Xiao Zhu and Xiao Mei delivering meals daily, one might have thought a monstrous beast lurked within.

A strange, mysterious atmosphere hung over the valley; those who wanted to ask found no answers, and could only swallow their curiosity. Occasionally, Carpenter Lu and Blacksmith Lin were summoned into the depths, and afterwards they would lock themselves in their rooms, secretly crafting odd contraptions, refusing to comment on the matter, as if deaf to the thunderous explosions from within.

Zhen Qian knew his intellect surpassed his practical skills, but now he was forced to act—ideas alone would not suffice.

After three days and nights of endless adjustments, constrained by the available technology, the Tang-era homemade bomb finally took shape: a melon-sized lump of iron, its surface meticulously engraved by Blacksmith Lin, designed to shatter and inflict extra harm upon detonation.

As test subjects, eight unsuspecting fat sheep were tightly tethered to wooden stakes, two meters from the blast site—a distance that seemed dangerously close, but with black powder, this was all one could hope for.

Several Wang clan retainers, who had no idea what Zhen Qian was up to, were invited to witness the experiment. The two young girls joined in for fun, while Zhen Er, Song Yi, and a few others who disliked excitement were also dragged along. None knew what spectacle awaited them that day. The group stood behind a waist-high sand mound, craning their necks to watch the irrepressibly excited Zhen San, eager to see what marvel he would produce.