Fifty Divine Talent Papers

The first project of the newly established Research and Development Department was personally devised by Luan Yi. He required Zheng Hun and the craftsmen to improve Lord Cai’s paper, making the light greenish-yellow sheets more resilient, whiter, more absorbent, more durable, and, most importantly, cheaper.

Unfortunately, Luan Yi did not know the papermaking techniques of later generations. All he could do was remind Zheng Hun and the others that paper was, in essence, formed by the coagulation of plant fibers left after fermentation. Only by reducing the cost of sourcing fibers and making them softer and whiter could paper become truly practical. As for how to realize this idea, that had to be left to Zheng Hun and his men to explore.

He had originally thought that improving paper would be a long and arduous process, never imagining that he had underestimated the wisdom of the ancients. In truth, technological advancement is often like piercing a thin veil. The seemingly inconspicuous hints Luan Yi provided, trivial knowledge for people of later ages, proved to be a beacon of inspiration for the ancient craftsmen like Zheng Hun.

Within the R&D Department, the experienced papermakers were suddenly enlightened and began their attempts at improvement. After more than half a month of relentless effort and countless cycles of failure and renewed experimentation, they finally discovered a more advanced method. Building upon the traditional techniques for making Lord Cai’s paper, they added an alkaline boiling stage, which resulted in paper that was both more resilient and whiter. The process involved gathering large quantities of hemp plants from Mount Li, soaking them, peeling off the skins, and chopping them up. These chopped materials were then boiled with alkali to increase fiber flexibility and remove impurities. After cooling, they were soaked again, trampled underfoot, and pounded with sticks to further break and refine the fibers. Traditional additives were then mixed in to make pulp, which was scooped up with homemade bamboo screens, and finally dried on walls—the paper thus produced.

The improved paper cost only a tenth of Lord Cai’s, and though it was not as tough or white as what would be seen in later generations, Luan Yi was quite satisfied. In the Eastern Han Dynasty, such paper was undoubtedly the most practical and affordable medium for writing.

With the advent of this new white paper, Zheng Hun immediately realized its epochal significance for the cultural transmission of the Han Empire. As the leader of the team that had invented it, his name would go down in history alongside Lord Cai—his greatest life’s ambition. He could not help but feel fortunate that he had followed Luan Yi to Jinan; otherwise, he would have missed out on such a monumental achievement. To have an employer who was both wealthy and capable of offering such inspired guidance was truly a blessing!

At the same time, he was inwardly astonished at Luan Yi’s erudition, who even knew about the nature of fibers, something never before recognized by the world. Zheng Hun was fully aware that it was this understanding of fibers that had enabled them to create such a new kind of paper.

Thus, Zheng Hun and all the craftsmen in the R&D Department unanimously credited Luan Yi with the greatest merit in the invention, and secretly named the new paper “Sage’s Paper.” Luan Yi was entirely unaware of this; by the time he heard the news, the name “Sage’s Paper” had already spread far and wide and could not be changed, but that is another story.

No one was happier about the birth of Sage’s Paper than Mao Jie. He always complained that silk was difficult for painting, its texture too rough and hampering his artistry. Now, trying out the new paper, he found it gleaming white and pliant, so smooth under his brush that the ink flowed like drifting clouds and flowing water. Its absorbency was superb, the ink never bled, and a landscape painting could be completed with ease and pleasure. From then on, he never used silk again, pestering Luan Yi daily for more paper.

Luan Yi replied: “I can give you paper, but it must remain secret. Nothing written or painted on it is to leave the workshop for the time being.”

Mao Jie, baffled, asked why such a wonderful thing should not be widely shared to benefit all.

Luan Yi only smiled mysteriously and said, “I have far greater plans for it.”

Once the new papermaking method was perfected, Luan Yi built two large workshops beside the jewelry workshop in the west courtyard, dedicated solely to paper production. The paper produced was not stored, but sent directly to the printing factory in the east courtyard to be made into books. The books printed were neither “The Wealth of Nations” nor “Strange Tales from a Scholar’s Studio,” but the newly revised “Scripture of the Virgin.” According to his initial plan, he needed to print at least 20,000 copies.

With cheap paper and moveable type printing, the cost of book production plummeted to about one-twentieth of what it had been. Yet, although the cost was greatly reduced, the sheer quantity still required a massive outlay of funds, and combined with the huge planned expenditure for missionary work, even the Luan family’s current wealth could not sustain it for long.

Therefore, Luan Yi had to find another way—a business that could yield ten thousandfold returns. But what could be so lucrative? Open a bank and make loans? Impossible—the Yellow Turban Rebellion would break out in two years, and if the loans could not be recovered, he would be ruined. Open more restaurants or general stores? No, the profits were too meager. Luan Yi felt a wave of despondency; a master of management from the twenty-first century, and yet in the second century, he could not think of a single surefire way to make a fortune. The sense of powerlessness welled up inside him, making him feel more fragile than ever.

“Wait…what was I just thinking?” Suddenly, a flash of inspiration crossed his mind. He instinctively crossed his hands, thumbs entwined. “Fragile, fragile…why does that word spark something?” What was fragile? Pots and pans? No…wait, of course. Glass! Glass is fragile!” Luan Yi leapt with excitement. In his past life, he had worked in a small company that researched and manufactured optical fiber. And what is optical fiber, if not threads of glass? He was thoroughly familiar with the raw materials and processes for making glass.

In the Eastern Han era, colored glass—known as “liuli” in Han China—was highly prized for its sparkling beauty. Yet, such a wondrous thing was produced only in the western regions, and, due to the difficulty of production and the hazards of transport, it was wildly expensive when it reached the Han Empire, worth its weight in gold.

But the methods Luan Yi knew could overturn this situation, drastically lowering production costs. And since it would be domestically produced, transportation and tariffs would be minimized, and the quality—thanks to his technique—would be even better than that of imported goods. If sold at the same price as foreign glass, the profits would be astronomical—a truly ten-thousandfold return.

With this in mind, Luan Yi immediately decided that the department’s second project would be glassmaking. Before the first trial, he held a rousing assembly, gathering all the craftsmen together and proclaiming, “Since the world began, the sons of the Yellow Emperor have used their labor and wisdom to create this flourishing world. Yet, we have our regrets. Among the myriad treasures of this world, there are still many that we, the children of China, cannot make ourselves, and must go to the distant West to buy from barbarians—glass among them. Today, for the glory of our nation’s crafts and the enrichment of Han products, I, Luan Yi, resolve to work with you all to develop glass, to make up for this national regret and proclaim the majesty of Han. Are you with me?”

Luan Yi’s words were grand and stirring, and the craftsmen, inspired, were convinced they had been entrusted with a task of world-shaking significance. Their blood boiled, and they shouted in unison, “We will give our utmost!”

Yet, a new problem soon stumped Luan Yi. Although he knew the main raw materials for glass were quartz, limestone, feldspar, and soda, he did not know what these minerals were called in Han times.

The craftsmen, learning that Luan Yi knew the recipe but not the names of the required materials, exclaimed in dismay, “What are we to do?”

“But I know their appearance and properties,” Luan Yi replied, “Let me describe them to you.” He then detailed the shapes, strengths, and heat resistance of the materials needed for glassmaking.

The craftsmen discussed among themselves for some time, until Zheng Hun, delighted, said, “Sir, all these things can be found on Mount Li, and our workshop already has plenty—we use them for smelting and brickmaking. I’ll fetch some for you to see if they’re what you need for glass!”

“Quick, bring them here!” Luan Yi urged. Zheng Hun hurried out, and before long returned with several rocks, calling out as he ran, “Sir, are these the right minerals?”

Luan Yi took the stones and, after inspecting them carefully, burst out laughing. It was exactly as he had hoped—quartz and the rest, all present and correct. Regaining his composure, he announced, “This is a great achievement! All of you have performed meritoriously today. Each shall be rewarded with five hundred coins; Master Zheng shall have an extra hundred.”

Everyone was overjoyed, never imagining such a secret project could be so straightforward, and they shouted their thanks to “Master Ziqi.”

Luan Yi smiled and said, “I have always rewarded merit and punished faults. Since you have done great service, you deserve your rewards. There’s no need to thank me.” Pausing, he added, “It’s late today; tomorrow we will fire the first batch of glass. Master Zheng, please have these materials ground into powder and brought to my room shortly.”

“Understood!” replied Zheng Hun.

The next morning, Luan Yi brought the carefully proportioned powder to the iron smelting furnace and instructed the craftsmen to melt it and observe the result. Before long, a black lump was presented to him. Once it cooled and solidified, he washed and polished it, but halfway through the process, his spirits sank.

The others gathered round and were delighted—its surface was clear and transparent, not as lustrous as the glass they knew, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

But Luan Yi’s next action left everyone stunned—he hurled the lump to the ground and stomped on it repeatedly.

Mao Jie hurried forward, exclaiming, “Yi, don’t! That’s excellent glass!” His heart ached—such a large piece, formless though it was, would fetch dozens of gold coins on the market. And now, it was ruined.

Luan Yi retorted angrily, “You call this glass? It’s black and not even transparent! It’s rubbish.” He thought to himself, Where did things go wrong? The materials are right, so why is there so much impurity? He asked the others, “Does anyone know why there are so many impurities in this glass?”

The craftsmen conferred, and finally a senior blacksmith stepped forward and said, “Sir, perhaps the furnace was not hot enough.”

Luan Yi was struck by realization—it must be an issue of temperature. “Then raise the heat at once!”

But the blacksmith looked distressed. “Master Ziqi, this furnace is already the hottest in the entire Han Empire.”