Chapter 101: The Luminous Glass Mirror

Before the main story begins, let's first discuss the issue of firearms. Gunpowder had already appeared by the mid-Tang dynasty, reportedly discovered by Taoist alchemists during their search for immortality elixirs. However, the early formula was flawed and its power limited, initially used mainly for firecrackers. It wasn’t until the late Tang period that gunpowder saw rapid development, and by the early Song dynasty, it was employed in the military, though its effectiveness remained modest. To enhance its potency, Song inventors began adding substances like arsenic, croton seeds, and pepper powder—purely to increase the explosive strength.

True firearms emerged around the transition from the Yuan to the Ming dynasty, illustrating how warfare often drives technological progress. Early firelocks existed in embryonic form but were constrained by the contemporary technology and military doctrines. Even during the Yuan dynasty’s siege of Xiangyang, the Mongols used Huihui cannons imported from afar. Had the Mongols mastered cannon-making themselves, it’s unlikely they would have gone to such lengths to acquire foreign craftsmen.

Now, addressing common questions faced by time travelers: can one produce Tang-era matchlock or flintlock firearms? The answer is a definite yes. Many historical time travelers dream of overthrowing dynasties with advanced weaponry, but the question remains—would that be feasible?

Since this book focuses on economics, let’s examine the financial implications. Even if one could manufacture advanced firearms, it would still be impossible to topple a stable dynasty, especially during its early or middle periods.

I won’t delve into the manufacturing process here, but consider prices during the Ming dynasty as a benchmark. Westerners sold matchlocks to the Ming court for sixty to seventy taels of silver each, while red-clothed cannons cost about 2,200 taels. Of course, these prices included commercial profits, but production costs likely accounted for over half the retail price.

This makes calculations straightforward. The Ming military had specialized units for firearms and artillery, equipping troops on a large scale. Yet, even the elite Divine Machine Battalion under Zhu Di only had about a 10% firearm equipment rate. The main reason: firearms were prohibitively expensive luxury items with high technological content, consumable parts, and fragility. Regardless of whether firearms outmatched bows in effectiveness, their cost alone was beyond the financial reach of any dynasty.

Imagine how many primitive matchlocks would be needed to field an effective fighting force.

Ancient battles, even small ones, often involved tens of thousands of soldiers; decisive engagements could see hundreds of thousands clashing. Equipping 10,000 men with matchlocks, each costing about 30 taels of silver—roughly 40 strings of Tang-era cash coins—would require 400,000 strings of cash. That’s before considering gunpowder, bullets, primers, and ongoing training expenses. Realistically, costs could exceed 600,000 strings, and due to manufacturing complexities, maintenance, and losses, average expenditures might surpass 800,000 strings.

By contrast, equipping soldiers with standard Tang iron sabers, priced around two strings each, would cost at least twenty times less. Sabers weren’t consumables and required minimal training expenses, widening the gap further. This economic reality partly explains why Ming firearms never became universally widespread.

Later chapters will discuss Tang finances and living standards. Would a pure firearm force of 10,000 sweep the realm? That underestimates Tang military strength. If so, Zhu Di's five northern campaigns with just 10,000 matchlock soldiers would have been unstoppable, eliminating the need to deploy armies in the hundreds of thousands.

The true power of firearms lies in their ability to rapidly assemble a force roughly equivalent to archers without considering production costs. This explains why the widespread use of firearms led to a dramatic increase in army sizes, with battles involving hundreds of thousands or even millions of combatants—one reason the Industrial Revolution paved the way for world wars. Large-scale firearm deployment depends on industrial mass production; picture later generations of African children wielding cheap AK-47s to grasp what firearm proliferation entails.

···· The story begins here ····

A butterfly flaps its wings in the Americas, and a towering wave rises across the ocean; countless causes and effects shape history. A blacksmith, angry after quarreling with his wife, vents his fury on the emperor’s warhorse’s iron horseshoes. The horse stumbles, leading to the emperor’s defeat in battle. Among the empire’s sheep, one strays from the flock, the consequences known only to the heavens.

Zhen Qian is that stray sheep—a remarkably low-key one, silently sharpening the horns on his head.

The government office faces due south. Without reason or money, do not enter!

In ancient times, the north was revered as the upper direction due to the presence of the Big Dipper. Official buildings invariably faced south. There was an unwritten rule: while common residences, rich or poor, also faced south, they never aligned exactly north-south but veered slightly east or west. Only official offices and temples faced true south.

The “eight-character wall” architecture of official offices not only symbolized prestige and authority but served another purpose. County offices managed agriculture promotion, finance, judicial affairs, education, public security, construction projects, and water conservancy. Imperial edicts on agriculture and moral instruction, official notices, proclamations, and bans were all posted on the eight-character wall, effectively serving as a public bulletin board.

Posted on the wall was Governor An Lushan’s conscription order: all counties must deliver military provisions to Youzhou by the second lunar month of next year; violators would be executed without mercy!

After the clerk’s announcement, Zhen Qian entered the county office’s rear hall and met the county magistrate, Feng Wannian. The Feng family was one of the four great clans of Pinglu Prefecture, producing many talents. It was said that the famous Tang general Feng Changqing had ties to the Bohai Feng family. Throughout history, the Feng clan had many distinguished figures, including Feng Deyi from the early Tang.

“Your junior pays respects to Magistrate Feng!”

In the Tang dynasty, county magistrates were called “Mingfu.” Never address them as “sir” casually, lest they think you’re trying to curry favor.

Entering the hall, Feng Wannian was holding a handscroll, dressed in casual attire. Tall and slender, his eyes sharp and bright, a wispy beard flowing on his chest, he wore a serene expression.

Feng beckoned to Zhen Qian, “Come closer, what do you think of this Huaisu ‘Fish Eating Letter’?”

Zhen Qian approached, peering at the scroll, murmuring, “Huaisu, whose secular surname was Qian, was a monk devoted to Buddhism from a young age. His cursive script, known as ‘wild cursive,’ is round, vigorous, fluent, and completed in one stroke. He ranks alongside Zhang Xu, and together they are nicknamed ‘Crazy Zhang and Drunken Su.’”

“Well said!” Feng’s eyes gleamed with approval. “A single piece by Huaisu is priceless. Today, having obtained the ‘Fish Eating Letter’ is a joy of life. Shall we share a drink and admire it together?”

Huaisu’s calligraphy would later be worth millions. Zhen Qian was well aware. “If Magistrate so wishes, how could I refuse?”

Accepting the cup of watered wine Feng handed him, Zhen Qian noticed no joy on the magistrate’s face. “Magistrate, is something troubling you?”

Feng drained the cup, sighing deeply. “Nephew, what do you think if I offer this scroll to the emperor?”

Every year, every prefecture and county paid tribute to the emperor before the New Year. Though Huaisu’s ‘Fish Eating Letter’ was priceless, it was not considered top-tier tribute. Feng desired to present it but feared Emperor Xuanzong might not appreciate it, leaving him hesitant.

Suddenly, Zhen Qian had a realization. From his bosom, he produced a small wooden box and presented it with both hands. “Magistrate! I happened to receive this precious glass mirror from the Western Regions and was about to offer it to you...”

Feng’s eyes brightened. In the High Tang era, officials often offered dragon-patterned bronze mirrors as tribute—known as “tribute mirrors”—while the emperor bestowed “imperial mirrors” to nobles. These dragon mirrors, also called cloud dragon mirrors, bore an inscription wishing for eternal prosperity. Historical records state Emperor Xuanzong commissioned “Eternal Mirrors,” which he gifted to ministers on his birthday, accompanied by a poem:

“Cast the Eternal Mirror, light born from refined gold.
Divided to bestow upon ministers, symbols of clarity and purity.”

Emperor Taizong Li Shimin, who inaugurated the prosperous Zhenguan era, once said, “Using bronze as a mirror corrects one’s attire; using history as a mirror reveals rise and fall; using others as a mirror clarifies gains and losses.”

Bronze mirrors were cast from a copper-tin alloy. During the Tang, the tin content increased, giving the metal a silvery brightness. The mirrors gleamed with a greenish light, smooth and lustrous—“pure copper brilliance reflecting beauties like water.”

Feng noticed the wooden box was plain and small, just palm-sized, with no decoration. His heart sank—how valuable could such a mirror be?

The box was slowly opened, and suddenly—a beam of light burst forth!

Feng startled, nearly dropping the box. The light was dazzling.

After a moment, the box was silent. Feng wiped a nonexistent cold sweat from his brow, embarrassed.

“What is this...?”

Curiosity propelled Feng to investigate. Inside lay many fine silk threads, and a mirror no larger than a baby’s palm rested quietly.

Carefully lifting the mirror, Feng beheld a luminous surface like a bright moon.

The mirror was round, its frame simple wood. Holding it, Feng felt it was thin and light. A bronze mirror of this size would be heavy, but this was as light as a feather.

He brought his face close. Instantly, another Feng Wannian appeared in the mirror—exactly identical down to the smallest detail.

Heavens! It was so clear!

He could see pores on his own face with perfect clarity, as if a living double stood before him.

Feng gasped, feeling short of breath. His heart pounded wildly, as if about to leap from his throat. He reached out to touch the mirrored self.

His fingers met the mirror’s surface, and the reflection’s fingers mirrored the motion—touching as if no barrier existed. A bronze mirror could never do this.

“So this is a glass treasure mirror?”

Feng was no stranger to the world; he had seen a few glass treasure mirrors in Chang’an, but none as clear as this.

So bright and translucent, so light and thin, neither metal nor jade, but like white crystal—immaculately clear and transparent. The touch was smooth, even slightly warm and soft.

“This glass treasure mirror must be priceless. Nephew, you truly intend to present it to the emperor? Do you ask for anything in return?”

Feng quickly regained composure. Gifts are never without expectation. Gazing at his image in the mirror, he felt tempted.

Zhen Qian immediately assumed a most respectful demeanor. “The emperor’s benevolence spreads far and wide; the realm is peaceful and joyous, all the people loyal. I, a humble man, am unworthy to keep such a treasure, which belongs only to His Majesty. I hereby offer it to the emperor!”

Feng’s eyes shone with delight. “Good! Your intentions are excellent!”

“Summon the deputy magistrate, the county sheriff, and the chief clerk at once! Let them witness this glass treasure mirror!”

                                                  —End—