The Spring That Never Came

In the heart of the Warring States period, the Qin people had long revered the Qigeng Grand Ceremony—the ritual marking the start of the agricultural year. Traditionally held between mid-February and early March, the exact date depended on the weather. Yet, regardless of when the ceremony took place, the entire Guanzhong Plain would awaken by the end of the first lunar month. Willow branches sprouted, river ice melted, and the vast grasslands along the Wei River turned green.

For the hardy Qin folk, spring was a fleeting respite from relentless warfare. They seized these rare moments of peace, venturing into the countryside to celebrate life. Whether rich or poor, scholar or farmer, all would wander the hills and rivers, pitching white tents, singing folk songs, and reveling in the season’s joy. Under vast blue skies, they danced to the rhythms of crude Qin zithers, their voices rising in raw, passionate ballads. These spontaneous gatherings birthed the Qin Feng—folk songs so poignant that even Confucius preserved ten of them in the Classic of Poetry, a testament to their emotional depth.

But this year, the spring never arrived.

A Land Parched by Heaven’s Wrath

The Qin people’s customary joy was smothered under a blanket of yellow dust. The wheat and barley sown the previous year had sprouted weakly, only to wither under an unrelenting drought. The few scattered rains barely moistened the soil, leaving crops to cling to life by sheer stubbornness. Without the meager snowfall at year’s end, the fields would have been barren.

The once-lush willows of Baqiao, famed for their springtime beauty, now stood brittle and brown. The legendary “snowflakes” of willow catkins were choked by swirling dust. Even the evergreen pines lost their luster under the oppressive haze. The Qin people, who had long prided themselves on enduring hardship, now cursed the relentless blue sky. “Man is born of drought, not rain,” the old saying went. But now, they prayed for thunderstorms—anything to break the suffocating dryness.

The King’s Decree: A Nation Mobilized

Amid growing despair, King Zheng of Qin issued two unprecedented edicts. The first granted tax relief, allowing farmers to defer payments until future harvests. It declared: “The law must not be abandoned, nor the people broken.” When the decree reached the Jing River canal project, the chief engineer Zheng Guo wept openly. Thousands of laborers, moved to tears, roared in unison: “Long live the King! Long live the state! Stalwart old Qin, face the nation’s calamity as one!”

The second edict was even more startling: the king himself would lead the battle against the drought. He would relocate his court to the Jing River, marshaling the nation’s strength to complete the canal before the autumn planting. The announcement stunned both Qin officials and rival states. No ruler had ever abandoned his capital to oversee a public works project.

The Debate in the Court

At an emergency council, ministers voiced their doubts. The Grand Minister of Agriculture argued, “A kingdom cannot be without its king for a single day. Even in wartime, no Qin ruler since Duke Xiao has left the capital.” Others feared ridicule from the six eastern states. But the old Chancellor cut through the dissent: “The question is not tradition or pride—it is survival. If the drought continues, Qin will perish.”

King Zheng silenced the chamber with a thunderous rebuke: “When Heaven strikes us down, shall we simply wait for death?” He declared his final decision:
1. The royal court would move to the Jing River.
2. The young general Meng Tian and the Chancellor would govern in his absence.
3. Key officials from the economic ministries would join him on the front lines.

The ministers, chastened, roared their ancient oath: “Stalwart old Qin, face the nation’s calamity as one!”

The King Among the People

By mid-March, the royal encampment stood at Hukou, the heart of the canal project. That night, King Zheng climbed a hill overlooking the construction site. Below him, lanterns stretched to the horizon like a sea of stars—thousands of laborers toiling through the night. The scale dwarfed even the grandest military camp.

“How much oil burns here each night?” he asked his attendant.
“Enough to light ten royal palaces,” came the uneasy reply.

The king fell silent, staring into the dust-choked darkness. The weight of the crisis pressed upon him: two million pounds of oil per month, rivers of sweat, and the fate of a nation hanging on this desperate gamble.

The Legacy of Resolve

King Zheng’s gamble succeeded. The Jing River canal was completed in time, saving Qin from famine. But more than that, it forged an unbreakable bond between ruler and people. The king who labored beside his subjects became a legend—one that would echo through the centuries as Qin rose to unify China.

The lesson was clear: when faced with disaster, a nation’s strength lies not in tradition or pride, but in the courage to defy even Heaven itself.