The adults began discussing their own affairs, leaving Cheng Jinzhou as one of only two children present—the other being Cheng Jinhao. The two boys exchanged glances, each likely thinking something along the lines of "this persistent ghost won't leave me alone."
As the two legitimate grandsons currently residing in the ancestral home, their rivalry might last a lifetime in most families—the exact duration depending on their fathers' longevity and their own intellectual prowess.
Cheng Jinhao naturally resented the attention Cheng Jinzhou received, but seated too far away, he could only rely on the power of his gaze, hoping that at some moment Cheng Jinzhou would look his way and be frightened to death by his intensity.
In reality, after that initial glance, Cheng Jinzhou never looked back. He was genuinely focused on listening to Liu Bin's words.
As the Transport Commissioner, Liu Bin's primary responsibility was ensuring the nation's tax base—a concept distinct from tax collection. The former determined who should pay taxes, while the latter ensured they actually did.
Every nation sees its tax sources fluctuate with development—sometimes increasing, sometimes decreasing. In most feudal states like the Great Xia Dynasty's aristocratic system, the tax base typically shrank over time because nobles were exempt from taxes. They would annex small farmers, who in turn preferred paying lower taxes to nobles rather than higher ones to the state.
"This problem surely gives His Majesty headaches too," Cheng Yuan'an remarked truthfully, shaking his head slightly as he reclined comfortably in his soft chair.
Like most scholars of ancient China, Cheng Yuan'an was talented academically but not necessarily as an official—though regardless of selection methods, whether ancient or modern, officials inevitably face problems beyond their knowledge.
Liu Bin adopted a more patriotic tone, saying gravely, "This problem isn't unsolvable—it just depends on how determined we are."
"That's for those above to consider. As a rotating official, such matters must be difficult for you," said Cheng Yuanquan, the Chief Administrator of Shaonan City—equivalent to its garrison commander. Being from a different bureaucratic system, he spoke more casually.
Liu Bin glanced at him and said, "I don't mind telling you—I intend to trial an inheritance equalization system in Hexi."
Currently in Great Xia, the eldest legitimate son inherited titles and political privileges, while other legitimate sons shared remaining assets. Illegitimate sons received little, and bastards nothing at all.
Cheng Yuan'an looked stunned. "This would shake our foundations. How could it work?"
With a half-smile, Liu Bin said seriously, "What I truly want is equal land distribution. If not just legitimate sons but also illegitimate ones could inherit land, the state's tax base would expand significantly."
Cheng Jinzhou's expression changed dramatically, while the adults actually relaxed. To these nobles, land mattered far less than titles.
Perhaps this reflected generational differences. In Cheng Jinzhou's schooling, land redistribution had always been portrayed as terrifying—imbued with bloodshed and violence, even when achieved through inheritance. What truly alarmed him was Liu Bin's proposal to redistribute land via inheritance—a tactic with historical precedents in China.
The most famous example was Emperor Wu of Han's "Decree of Grace": princes could no longer practice primogeniture but had to divide their property—especially territories—among all sons. Thus vast principalities were quickly weakened through successive divisions, even if lords understood the consequences, as sons pressured fathers for land.
This was centralization in its purest form. Historically, Emperor Wu had thoroughly buried the feudal system.
What upset Cheng Jinzhou was that as a Cheng family member, he benefited from both feudalism and primogeniture. Liu Bin's methods threatened his stable future.
The hall's occupants failed to grasp these terrifying implications—not from stupidity, but because their positions limited such foresight. Centuries of inertia weren't easily broken. Moreover, while ancient Chinese principalities' power correlated with land, Great Xia nobles' influence was more complex. Yet Liu Bin's words still struck Cheng Jinzhou's sensitive nerves—their families were so closely connected that trouble for one meant trouble for both.
He couldn't help adding, "If land equalization comes to Shaonan, I'll oppose it."
"Oh?" Liu Bin immediately turned, unfazed by the boy's youth, smiling. "Do explain."
Seeing even his father look over, Cheng Jinzhou steeled himself and spoke bluntly: "Under your plan, with my father's dozen brothers, each would get maybe two or three estates—enough for household expenses but diminishing our family's overall holdings. By my generation, with nearly a hundred legitimate and illegitimate grandsons, no one would get even one estate. By my son's time, he might inherit just a few hundred acres—how would he differ from common farmers? Even our steward oversees that much land."
Liu Bin clapped and laughed. "Exactly! This would force nobles to act. Don't just count inheritances—you, Cheng Jinzhou, might become a full astrologer before thirty. Then the land you gain could surpass the entire Cheng family's current holdings, no?"
Cheng's mother smiled. "Ordinary astrologers aren't that wealthy, but someone like Master Liu Kuang's stature needn't consider land at all."
As others voiced agreement, Cheng Jinzhou felt sorrow. These were the Cheng family's second-generation elites. Though Liu Bin's proposal might never succeed, his determination revealed a reformer's persistence—like a vice principal insisting on playground fees or cafeteria waste penalties. Beyond glorious reputations, reformers often left unburied bones.
Examining a card in his hand, Cheng Jinzhou muttered, "If land division fails, fine. If it succeeds, that's truly frightening."
His father hummed, seeming not to understand his son.
Playing with his fingers, Cheng Jinzhou continued: "If this method works too well, our King won't limit it to revenue. He'll have nobles divide titles, soldiers, armories, warships, and airships among all sons—then daughters, then bastards..."
Silence filled the hall as Cheng Jinzhou rasped out his recent studies: "Our kings have always distrusted noble power. How long has Great Xia debated demoting inherited titles? Without worsening border wars, it might continue another century. The King has tried dividing inheritance before—splitting one earl into three viscounts, one duke into three marquises—but opposition was too strong. Yet starting with giving property rather than taking rights might succeed..."
None expected a twelve-year-old to so boldly critique royal policy—and with such frightening logic.
Only the sound of fish flicking tails in a murmuring brook broke the silence.
Liu Bin suddenly stood, his force sending the soft chair sliding back over a meter. Pointing sharply at Cheng Jinzhou, he declared: "I want you as my son-in-law."