Chapter 102: The Fortnightly Edition

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Mo San’s Predicament.

Modun believed that one major reason why mathematics was not widely disseminated in the Tang Dynasty was its obscurity and difficulty—Zu Chongzhi’s "Zhui Shu" was a prime example.

Well then!

If even the scholars themselves, like the professors, couldn’t fully grasp mathematical knowledge, how could they possibly teach it to students? Thus, the eventual loss of "Zhui Shu" in later generations was hardly surprising.

Remembering past mistakes to guide the future, Modun shared with Shen Hongcai the idea of compiling mathematics textbooks divided simply by grade levels. This step-by-step method of teaching mathematics, proven over centuries, was indeed the most effective way to popularize the subject.

“The Mo family has its own printing press! As long as the scholars can compile the books, they can be immediately printed and published. Mo Family Village will be among the first to use the new-style mathematics,” Modun assured confidently, patting his chest.

With a clear goal, Shen Hongcai shook off his previous despondency and left with renewed determination.

In the following days, Modun quietly resumed his role as a diligent student at the Imperial Academy. The entire academy quickly returned to its usual calm, as if the dispute over Indian numerals had never happened.

Another ten-day holiday arrived.

Spring had returned to the earth, all things revived. In the backyard of the Mo residence, the great willow tree had already sprouted tender buds, its countless silk-like branches hanging down. A gentle breeze stirred the emerald leaves, creating a scene of serene delight.

Modun was once again lying under the willow, feigning death—but this time, not sprawled on the ground. His old injury had healed, and he lay comfortably in a custom-made reclining chair crafted by Old Zhang, perfectly supporting his body without any effort.

The warm sun shone upon Modun, so soothing it almost lulled him to sleep. If not for the occasional strange noise, he might have already dozed off.

“Mo San!” Modun called out irritably.

After pacing back and forth in the backyard more than ten times, Mo San hurried over, bowing respectfully. “Greetings, Young Master!”

“What’s the matter? I heard from Purple Robe? You’ve been busy with the printing press, so how do you have time to come here?” Modun’s eyes flicked toward a patch of purple behind the flower bushes.

Clearly, Purple Robe had been whispering from behind, sending Mo San over.

After the Mo Skills Exhibition, Modun had separated Mo San from the Mo residence. Mo San, granted a prestigious military title by the emperor, was skilled with his hands and an expert engraver. The emperor’s generous reward of a thousand taels was given in full to Mo San as start-up capital. After that, Modun did not intervene further, especially as he had been preoccupied with many matters lately, and so Mo San had been somewhat neglected.

“The printing press has run into some trouble. Please, Young Master, give me some guidance!” Mo San said, his face flushed red.

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“Trouble?” Modun looked at Mo San in puzzlement. By all rights, Mo San had rank, skill, and capital; the printing press shouldn’t be facing any problems.

“There are no books to print!” Mo San stammered before finally explaining the whole situation. Only then did Modun understand the underlying issue.

It turned out that Mo San had started out full of ambition, eager to make a mark. But he soon realized that woodblock printing technology had rapidly spread throughout Chang’an. This was an era without intellectual property protection; many court officials had caught wind of the commercial opportunity. Several of them had jumped in early, and skilled woodcarvers were not hard to find. Within just over a month, more than ten printing houses had opened in Chang’an, causing book prices to plummet to a third of their original value.

“Those sanctimonious hypocrites?” Modun gritted his teeth. The technology of woodblock printing, frankly, was just a thin veil—easy to pierce through.

“But they didn’t gain the upper hand. The Imperial Academy revised various Confucian classics, adding punctuation marks and attaching the academy’s prestigious name. These editions sold very well, while the printing houses in Chang’an were left with large stockpiles,” Mo San said, still shaken.

Modun was astonished. He had thought the Imperial Academy was full of rigid, old-fashioned scholars, but they had shown remarkable savvy. This move was akin to the famous editions of textbooks in later eras—once the academy’s name was on it, there was no worry about selling the books, and they held great authority.

“You printed a lot of those too?” Modun asked.

Mo San shook his head, then suddenly raised his voice: “Young Master, we Mo family descendants would never print Confucian classics!”

Modun intended to persuade Mo San not to be so sectarian as a businessman but, seeing how the market was flooded with Confucian texts, he gave up on the argument.

From Mo San’s account, Modun finally grasped the printing press’s predicament. Mo San specialized in printing the "Mo Jing" and "Dao Jing," but sold very few copies; business was bleak. His main work now was printing various medical contracts for Hua Lao’s Mo Hospital—without that, the press would have long since collapsed.

Modun looked sympathetically at Mo San. The young man was exceedingly unlucky—skilled yet unable to find a place to apply those skills.

Modun had a mathematics textbook project by Shen Hongcai he could assign to Mo San, but since Shen Hongcai hadn’t finished compiling it yet, and it was unclear how long it would take, Modun decided to keep that a surprise for later.

“What exactly are you thinking?” Modun asked with scrutiny.

He noticed Mo San hesitated, clearly harboring some idea.

“I want to…” Mo San glanced involuntarily toward the flower bushes.

“Come over here!” Modun said impatiently.

Purple Robe, unashamed of being caught, eagerly ran over. “Young Master, Mo San wants to print my paintings!”

“Your paintings?”

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Modun’s scornful gaze deeply wounded Purple Robe’s pride. Pouting, she produced a large stack of rice paper from behind her.

“Comics?”

Modun stared in surprise at the stick figures and exaggerated lines before him. He had to admit, given the existing conditions, these simple-line comics were the easiest to print.

If they were sketches or landscape paintings, no matter how skilled the engraving, it would be nearly impossible to reproduce—this was not the era of laser scanning.

Squinting, Modun looked at Mo San and Purple Robe. Their partnership was indeed seamless. He could imagine, in this era of scarce entertainment, the emergence of illustrated books with text like these comics would create quite a sensation.

“Young Master? What do you think?” Purple Robe asked hopefully.

“Interesting!” Modun smiled faintly. “Anything else?”

“Anything else?” Purple Robe was somewhat baffled. She hadn’t thought that far—she just wanted her paintings printed; nothing else mattered.

“Young Master, here’s my idea: the youth of Mo Family Village travel throughout the Guanzhong region, bringing back all sorts of news. If we organize and publish these tidbits, combined with Purple Robe’s illustrations, I believe there’s a way forward,” Mo San said.

This idea had long been in his mind. Since printing traditional books offered no advantage, he sought a new path.

Modun looked at Mo San with surprise. He hadn’t expected his mind to be so forward-thinking, almost touching on the concept of newspapers in later eras.

“Oh, it takes three days to make a round trip to Guanzhong. Some news needs careful verification. I plan to publish an issue every half month. This way, the information remains timely and accurate,” Mo San spoke confidently.

“A biweekly publication!” Modun nodded silently.

In an age when news traveled extremely slowly, a biweekly edition was indeed the most suitable approach.