Strike first to gain the upper hand. Strike late, and you will be controlled by others.
Li Shimin did not just believe in this philosophy; he had weaponized it. He held it deep in his bones when he was merely the Prince of Qin, leading armored cavalry across blood-soaked plains.
Now, as the supreme Emperor of the Great Tang Dynasty, his mindset had not changed one bit.
Control the enemy. Never allow the enemy to control you.
Li Jing, the era's undisputed military god, offered his highest praise for this very principle, elevating it to the absolute core of his strategic doctrine.
If a commander wanted victory on the battlefield, the ultimate prerequisite was forcing the adversary to react to his tempo.
As they gazed at the miraculous floating light screen suspended above the palace courtyard, both Li Shimin and Li Jing came to a stark realization.
The generations of the distant future cared about this exact same idea. The modern world simply packaged it differently, calling it the struggle for the strategic initiative.
Yet as footage of the future unfolded before their eyes, a chill ran down their spines. The battle for this initiative in the modern era was far more brutal and exhaustive than anything they could have imagined.
This clash for supremacy was no longer confined to sword fights, cavalry flanks, or contests of battlefield formations. The battlefield had expanded like a creeping shadow, seeping into every corner of human civilization.
It was a war hidden inside weapons manufacturing. A bloodless, silent conflict fought through ideological competition and academic dominance. Waged on the high seas through global trade networks. It probably even dictated how farmers sowed their crops and harvested their grain. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of unseen domains existed where modern nations fought tooth and nail to secure the upper hand.
The imperial courtyard held its breath. Li Shimin stared at the fading images of modern dreadnoughts and naval fleets cutting through oceans, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
"To avoid being dragged around by the nose, a nation must strike first," Li Shimin murmured, his voice echoing in the quiet courtyard. "Strike late, and you end up trapped in a cage of another man's making. Refuse to strike altogether, and you become nothing more than a slave, a captive concubine, or cattle waiting on the butcher's block. The tide of the world is a sweeping, unstoppable flood."
Li Shimin sighed deeply. The grand strategic anxiety weighing on him was so immense that he completely lost his usual enthusiasm for offering royal sacrifices to the light screen.
His prime minister, Du Ruhui, remained meticulous and steadfast. He would not let existential dread skip imperial protocol. Step by measured step, he walked forward holding a beautifully crafted wooden box, prepared hours earlier by palace attendants.
He placed it respectfully beneath the screen's lower edge and bowed low to the ground.
When Du Ruhui straightened up, the box had vanished into thin air.
Li Shimin barely noticed. He had personally chosen its contents from his inner palace vault that morning, just a small token of goodwill.
A wealthy Sogdian merchant had presented it years ago; back then, he and Empress Zhangsun had marveled at its delicate beauty. Today, such trinkets seemed utterly insignificant compared to the terrifying geopolitical knowledge on display.
Instead of watching the screen, Li Shimin turned toward a white-bearded man standing near the front ranks of officials.
"Yaowang, next time, why not write out one of your finest medical formulas?" Li Shimin asked, a tired, genuine smile finally breaking through his anxiety. "We can present it to the screen and see how future generations analyze it."
Sun Simiao, the legendary King of Medicine, froze for a split second before his weathered face split into a wide, delighted grin.
"That would be extraordinary, Your Majesty!" Sun Simiao bowed deeply.
This was no random whim. Li Shimin had seen firsthand how hard Sun Simiao labored in the Imperial Medical Bureau every day.
The Tang Empire operated at peak efficiency. Domestic administration was tightly managed by brilliant minds like Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui, overseeing thousands of capable officials across the three departments and six ministries. Military expansion was anchored by seasoned commanders like Li Jing, with hungry young talents like Xue Rengui and Pei Xingjian waiting in the wings. The Imperial Academy nurtured world-class scholars. The Directorate of Works oversaw massive engineering breakthroughs.
The only department struggling to keep pace was medicine.
Inside the Imperial Medical Bureau, barely a handful of junior apprentices could keep up with Sun Simiao's rigorous lectures. According to the old physician himself, training a competent doctor was exponentially harder than producing a top-ranking classical scholar. Giving the medical bureau a boost from the future was just common sense.
Watching joy light up Sun Simiao's face, Li Shimin felt a warm wave of relief wash over him, genuinely proud of his decision. Surely future generations watching the screen would praise his visionary leadership and enlightened reign.
A moment later, the giant light screen flickered and flared with soft white light once more.
Li Shimin straightened his posture, bracing himself for modern commentary to shower him with compliments. Instead, the feed cut to a sleek, modern wooden desk displaying two conspicuous items.
The first was a glass bottle. The very same Sogdian treasure Li Shimin had just pulled from his vault.
The second was a thin sheet of paper. Li Shimin squinted and spotted bold characters at the top: Guizhi Tang. At the bottom left corner, a clean, unmistakable signature stood out: Zhang Zhongjing.
It was a medical prescription.
Sun Simiao nearly burst with excitement. He offered Li Shimin a hasty, half-hearted bow, spun on his heel, and sprinted across the stone courtyard to corner court painter Yan Liben, violently demanding paper and ink to transcribe every single word about to come from the screen.
Li Shimin was left standing alone in the hall's center, mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief. His most respected court doctor had just abandoned all imperial etiquette for a piece of paper.
---
Meanwhile, in the modern world, Wen Mang had settled into a comfortable, highly repeatable routine.
Gather historical materials, write scripts, film videos, edit footage, hit publish, then sit back and wait for history nerds and mysterious wealthy sponsors to shower him with digital donations.
When his phone buzzed with a courier notification that day, he walked down to pick up his packages and felt immediate relief. Both items were surprisingly small. Running around town under the guise of "filming props" meant bulky items were a total logistical nightmare to transport.
Thankfully, his setup in Sichuan Province had solved most of those headaches. A wealthy, history-obsessed woman named Dongfang Ye had been incredibly understanding, leasing him a massive climate-controlled warehouse at a ridiculously cheap "friendship discount" to store props during transit. She had even hooked him up with a top-tier courier service handling white-glove, door-to-door pickups.
The company was absurdly professional. Even though they were supposedly moving cheap replica props for a history channel, they treated every box as if it contained priceless artifacts stolen from the National Palace Museum.
They delivered items in an armored transport vehicle, complete with a cargo bay featuring infrared sensors, temperature controls, and internal surveillance.
The security guards accompanying the van were built like brick walls, looking as though they had just finished a special forces tour. Their intense, dead-serious demeanor made Wen Mang feel deeply embarrassed just standing next to them.
He could not help but laugh at the thought. If high-tech highway pirates ambushed the van, breached the vault, and stole the contents, it would be the ultimate letdown. Like dropping ten million at Sotheby's for a Yuan Dynasty porcelain bowl, only to flip it over and see "Microwave Safe" stamped on the bottom. It would make anyone question if the world had lost its mind.
On top of that, the mysterious Dongfang Ye had personally bought several of his previous props for staggering sums, prices so high that Wen Mang genuinely considered dragging her to the nearest hospital for a psychiatric consultation.
He had even offered to give her the items for free, telling her clearly that as long as she kept supporting his content, she could take whatever she wanted. Dongfang Ye had simply shaken her head gravely, insisting she could not take them without paying full price.
In the end, Wen Mang chalked it up to the strange habits of the very wealthy. The bank transfers were real cash; no point losing sleep over it.
Shaking those thoughts away, Wen Mang focused on the two new items on his workbench, deciding to film a short, lighthearted vlog to thank his supporters.
[Lightscreen]
[Hello, hello everyone! This is your favorite uneducated streamer, Wen Mang, supported once again by our generous big bosses! Welcome back to another unboxing vlog. Let's see what we've got today!
This time we have a bottle and a medical formula. Your host happens to know a tiny bit about both, so let us have a casual chat about what we are looking at.]
He set up his tripod, adjusted his ring lights, and slipped on clean white cotton gloves before picking up the glass bottle.
Even running a humble history channel, he mirrored the exact movements of real archaeologists.
Real or fake, a content creator always had to project maximum professionalism.
Lightscreen]
[First off, I have to give huge credit to whichever big boss crafted this bottle. The detail is absolutely mind-blowing. Like, seriously, whoever made this, take a bow.
The prototype is clearly modeled after one of the crown jewels in the Famen Temple Museum. I am talking about the Tang Dynasty yellow glass bottle with a narrow neck and applied decorative rosettes. Fancy stuff.
This bottle is a textbook artifact of the ancient Silk Road. The hot-working technique used to craft the glass body was hugely popular in the late Roman Empire, while the surface decorations blend influences from Rome, Sassanian Persia, and early Islamic culture. Basically, this bottle traveled more than most people do in their entire lives.
Now, speaking of glass, this brings up a classic question that pops up in history forums all the time. Was ancient Chinese liuli the exact same thing as modern glass?
Short answer? Sort of. Long answer? Let us get into it.
From a strict chemical standpoint, most ancient liuli is indeed a form of glass. The core difference comes down to manufacturing techniques and cultural priorities. Think of it like this: same ingredients, different recipes.
In the West, craftsmen used the blowpipe method since ancient Roman times. Later, because Northern Europe suffered dark, gloomy winters with limited sunlight, Western glass research naturally gravitated toward transparency. They wanted clear panes to let daylight into homes. This architectural need let glass enter daily life relatively early. Basically, they needed to see the sun or they would go crazy.
In the East, however, liuli originated as an accidental byproduct of bronze smelting. Because ancient Chinese culture heavily revered jade, liuli developed down a completely different path. It was refined to serve as an affordable substitute for precious jade. Think of it as the budget-friendly version of jade.
For instance, archaeologists in Hunan uncovered ancient liuli bi disks that look even more vibrant than genuine jade. These were ceremonial jade disks with a hole in the center, traditionally associated with heaven, and the liuli versions were crafted to mimic them. So even the knockoffs looked amazing.
By the Ming Dynasty, people even referred to high-grade liuli as medicine jade, proudly wearing it inlaid on official robes and belt buckles. Because nothing says "I am important" like wearing fake jade that looks better than the real thing.
Because of this historical divergence, if any of you ever time travel back to ancient China thinking you will blow a clear glass cup and shock the Emperor out of his mind, you are going to be severely disappointed. Crystal cups already existed back then. Clear containers were not mind-blowing miracles unless you could hand-grind optical lenses to build a working telescope. Sorry to burst your time-travel bubble.
If you cannot grind lenses with your bare hands, stick to manufacturing opaque, brilliantly colored liuli. If you can use modern chemistry to formulate glazes that shimmer like genuine gemstones, the ancient nobility will gladly drown you in gold. Literally. They will throw money at you until you cannot breathe.]
Across the vast span of time, in Chengdu's government hall, Zhuge Liang rapidly jotted down "blowpipe method" in his notebook, tapping his feather fan lightly against his forehead as he sank into deep thought.
He had been buried under endless civil and military administrative work lately, but he distinctly remembered a frustrating conversation from two months prior.
The supervisor of the official state glass workshop had complained bitterly about high failure rates during production runs.
Zhuge Liang had inspected the blazing furnaces himself back then, but could not spot what was wrong.
Now, hearing the future streamer explain the divergence in techniques, the puzzle pieces finally clicked. His craftsmen were still relying on traditional metal casting molds to shape glass, instead of using free-blowing pipe techniques.
So that is why the failure rate was so high, he thought. We were trying to pour glass like bronze. Of course it did not work.
"Daylighting," Zhang Fei muttered, stroking his thick, dark beard with intense interest. "You mean to tell me this clear glass thing can make a room bright in the dead middle of winter?"
Zhang Fei vividly remembered the brutal, bone-chilling northern winters of his hometown in Zhuo Commandery. Houses back then were dark, drafty boxes; people huddled in gloom to conserve heat. The thought of sitting in a warm, sunlit room while snow fell outside made his heart leap with excitement.
Imagine it, he thought. No more shivering in the dark. No more huddling around a tiny fire. Just sunlight pouring in through the walls. That is not glass. That is magic.
Liu Bei remained perfectly quiet, looking up at the crude wooden window frames of the Chengdu office. Wooden lattices crisscrossed each other, covered in thin, fragile paper that rattled loudly every time the wind blew.
He remembered his younger days hanging around wealthy aristocratic estates in Luoyang, and how prominent families flexed their untouchable wealth by stretching expensive silk over windows to block cold air.
Silk windows, he thought bitterly. Only the richest families could afford to let light in and keep the cold out. Everyone else just froze in the dark.
A single window pane, Liu Bei realized with a heavy sigh, revealed absolutely everything about a civilization's standard of living.
He looked at Zhang Fei's excited face and felt a pang of sadness. His brother was dreaming of glass windows. Meanwhile, Cao Cao's generals were probably already plotting their next campaign. The gap between them was not just military. It was everything.
---
On the floating screen, Wen Mang's energetic voice snapped everyone's attention back to the second item on the desk.
Lightscreen]
[Now, as for this medical formula, the famous Guizhi Tang. Man, oh man, this one is an absolute masterpiece. Like, genuinely top-tier stuff.
Inside the chaotic, war-torn late Han Dynasty, two legendary physicians stood head and shoulders above the rest. One was Hua Tuo, the guy who invented anesthesia and could probably perform surgery blindfolded. The other was Zhang Zhongjing, the guy who wrote the medical textbook that everybody copied for the next thousand years.
Zhang Zhongjing compiled a monumental text known as the Treatise on Febrile and Miscellaneous Diseases. The original manuscript was tragically lost during continuous civil wars, but later Jin Dynasty physicians gathered, organized, and meticulously edited the surviving fragments, splitting his work into two classics. These became the Treatise on Febrile Diseases and the Essential Prescriptions of the Golden Casket. Basically, they did the ancient equivalent of recovering a deleted hard drive.
Inside the Golden Casket is a famous formula called Shenqi Pill. Centuries later, pediatric experts tweaked this exact recipe to create a modern household staple every guy knows about. I am talking about Liuwei Dihuang Pill, a very popular tonic for men's wellness. Let us just say it is popular for a reason.
As for Guizhi Tang, this formula comes directly from the Treatise on Febrile Diseases. It is universally praised by medical historians as the King of Formulas, the undisputed number one prescription for treating cold damage disorders. If you had a cold in ancient China, this is what you wanted.
Looking back at history, the entire late Han Dynasty was plagued by devastating epidemics. In a world ravaged by disease, death, and famine, the value of this single prescription was literally priceless. It saved countless lives. You could probably trade this formula for a small kingdom back then.
Your illiterate host here is not some mystical Daoist practitioner, but if we look at this from modern pharmacology's perspective, the medical logic behind Guizhi Tang is insanely scientific. Like, scary scientific.
If you view the human body fighting a cold virus as a massive military campaign, Fresh Ginger and Peony act as logistics and supply teams, boosting appetite, improving digestion, and increasing blood vessel permeability to open supply lines. They get the troops fed and the roads open.
Licorice and Jujubes act as heavy combat rations, delivering quick, vital nutrients to keep your body fueled for the fight ahead. Think of them as the energy bars of ancient medicine.
Meanwhile, Cinnamon Twigs take full advantage of the expanded blood vessels created by Peony, accelerating circulation, driving up core body temperature, and forcing the body to sweat out the invading pathogen. They are the main offensive pushing the enemy out.
You have logistics, open supply lines, tactical maneuvers, and a decisive main offensive. Every herb interacts with the next in a tight, incredibly logical chain. This is a classic, top-tier masterpiece of empirical, observation-based medicine. It is like a perfectly choreographed military operation, but inside your body.
In ancient times, Chinese medicine was developing along a remarkably solid, practical path. During the Spring and Autumn period, Wang Mang's Xin Dynasty, and even through the chaotic Five Dynasties period, clear records exist of doctors performing systematic human dissections to study pathology. They were literally cutting people open to see what was inside. Hardcore stuff.
Around 1140, during the Song Dynasty, an official named Wu Jian was formally commissioned by the imperial court to dissect fifty executed criminals alongside the best imperial physicians. They produced a highly detailed book called Ou Xifan's Anatomical Charts of the Five Viscera, which became mandatory reading for all medical students. Nobody realized it at the time, but this moment was probably the closest Traditional Chinese Medicine ever came to embracing modern medical science. They were right there. So close.
Tragically, about a hundred and fifty years later, the rise of Cheng-Zhu Neo-Confucianism changed absolutely everything. Chinese medicine completely abandoned physical dissection and sprinted headfirst into the realm of abstract metaphysics.
They went from cutting people open to arguing about philosophical concepts.
It took off down that mystical road and never turned back. That was the exact moment Chinese medicine crossed paths with modern science, drifted away, and vanished down a completely different track forever. And honestly, it is kind of heartbreaking.]
As the modern presenter's voice echoed through the ancient hall, the nervous tension on Zhang Zhongjing's face gradually dissolved, replaced by a proud, beaming smile.
His life's work had been validated by the future.
Then came the presenter's final twist, and the smile on Zhang Zhongjing's face froze solid.
"Meta... physics?" Zhang Zhongjing whispered, desperately searching his vast memory for the unfamiliar term.
Zhang Fei, whose memory was surprisingly sharp when it came to random insults, leaned over and offered a loud, cheerful explanation.
"Oh, I know this one!" Zhang Fei boomed. "Metaphysics means something looks super fancy and mysterious from the outside, but when you open the door and step inside, there is nothing there except a bunch of useless guys running their mouths!"
Zhang Zhongjing's face went completely pale.
"Yide!" Liu Bei barked, shooting his younger brother a firm, dangerous glare to rein in his reckless tongue.
Liu Bei understood medicine's massive, unquantifiable value. Hearing the presenter confirm Zhang Zhongjing's status as a legendary physician proved the old man was a genuine national treasure. A grumpy, pale, slightly traumatized national treasure, but still.
Facing the pale, demoralized doctor, Liu Bei stepped forward and offered a deep, reassuring bow.
"Master Zhang, I promise you that the state will fully fund the compilation and publication of your Treatise on Febrile and Miscellaneous Diseases," Liu Bei declared with absolute authority. "We will rebuild and elevate medical science across Shu!"
Liu Bei meant every word. Setting aside everything else, a prescription capable of fighting widespread epidemics was enough to warrant the imperial court's full financial backing.
It definitely had absolutely nothing to do with a sudden, burning curiosity about that male-focused Liuwei Dihuang Pill. Nothing at all.
I mean, it sounds useful, Liu Bei thought. But that is not the point. The point is medicine. Pure, noble medicine.
Recalling the massive political support he had received from Zhuge Liang and Liu Bei, along with two brand-new medical academies currently under construction in the capital, Zhang Zhongjing's complexion slowly recovered.
Still, he could not wrap his head around the core problem. "This Neo-Confucianism claims to study the universe's fundamental principles. How in the world did it turn a practical science like medicine into mystical talk?"
Zhang Fei ignored his brother's glare and curled his lip in disgust. "If this Neo-Confucianism stuff was actually useful, would the Song Dynasty have ended up in such a pathetic, miserable state?"
Zhuge Liang looked up at the glowing light screen, a sharp, brooding deduction taking shape in his brilliant mind.
He knew exactly what dogmatic, overly academic Confucian scholars were like. While researching state monopolies on salt and iron, he had thoroughly read transcripts of fierce debates between pedantic Lu scholars and pragmatist Sang Hongyang. The arrogant, backward-looking obsession with ancient texts practically oozed off the pages, blinding those scholars to the state's actual needs.
They would rather quote a dead sage than solve a real problem, Zhuge Liang thought. Sounds about right.
When Song Dynasty scholars fused Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism into Neo-Confucianism, did they eliminate that fatal flaw? Zhuge Liang highly doubted it. In fact, they probably amplified it into a destructive art form.
They turned philosophy into a weapon against progress.
Still, Zhuge Liang saw no point in crying over spilt milk. From a modern perspective, exploring human knowledge was exactly like walking along a sheer cliff's edge. A single misstep in state philosophy could send an entire civilization tumbling into the abyss for centuries.
However, the realization sparked a brand-new, highly ambitious idea in his mind.
Zhuge Liang turned toward Zhang Zhongjing and bowed respectfully, adjusting his crane cloak. "Master Zhang, I would like to assist you in completely revising and rewriting the Shennong Herbal Classic. What do you think?"
Pang Tong raised an eyebrow in surprise, feeling like Zhuge Liang had just pulled another massive step ahead in grand statecraft.
But since he knew virtually nothing about medical science, he had no choice but to keep his mouth shut and watch.
Then Pang Tong blinked, staring at Zhuge Liang's frail shoulders. "Wait a second, Zhuge Kongming. You are currently managing civil administration, military logistics, legal codes, agricultural reform, and glass manufacturing. How the hell do you actually have enough hours in the day to rewrite a medical textbook?"
Zhang Zhongjing understood the monumental weight of Zhuge Liang's offer better than anyone else in the room.
The Shennong Herbal Classic was remarkable because it compiled early Han Dynasty medical wisdom, but its greatest strength was also its fatal weakness.
When Zhang Zhongjing had first read the classic as a young student, his faith in medicine had severely wavered.
If a doctor actually believed what was written in that ancient book, half the wild herbs in the forest could grant eternal youth, eliminate the need for food, and extend lifespan indefinitely. Some alchemy recipes even claimed long-term consumption could turn human flesh into mercury. The text practically screamed that you could ascend to heaven as an immortal if you just ate enough magical rocks.
It was complete and utter nonsense.
Even as a basic introductory text for novice doctors, the book was filled with wild exaggerations, mystical folklore, and highly dangerous errors. It was more dangerous than useful.
Thinking about the tragic future where medical science devolved into abstract philosophical gabbing, Zhang Zhongjing felt a profound, burning sense of historical duty flare up in his chest.
He looked Zhuge Liang dead in the eye, took a deep breath, and gave a solemn, decisive nod. If you want to work yourself to death, who am I to refuse your help...