Lu Huan began flipping through the Second Division’s past ledgers.

About two hours later, a sudden commotion broke out outside—raised voices, hurried footsteps—it seemed a clerk had come to report that trouble had arisen.

There were two incidents.

In the first, a section head responsible for horse procurement had failed in supervision—some guards at the military camp had been negligent, and several dozen horses had escaped.

The second involved the recent recruitment drive by General Zhenyuan’s Mansion, which had increased the demand for weapons. The Second Division had therefore ordered more spears and silver swords.

But here arose the problem: during transport from the forges to the armory, the carts had drawn protests from local residents, who complained that the clattering wagons disturbed their peace.

Worse still, due to mishandling by the officials in charge, a number of weapons had gone missing in transit. In Yan Country, it was strictly forbidden for commoners to purchase or own weapons privately—if such arms were picked up by criminals in the capital, they could be used for all manner of misdeeds.

Neither of these issues was small. The section heads outside were in a panic, talking over one another in a noisy uproar.

Lu Huan acted as if he hadn’t heard.

A moment later, the Langzhong (Director of the Fifth Rank) of the Second Division arrived.

This Langzhong had long planned to place his own son into the assistant secretary’s deputy position. But before he could act, Commander Yun had already recommended this boy, snatching the opportunity away.

He, too, was displeased. Still, being far more tactful than the section heads and serving under Commander Yun himself—he didn’t dare show disrespect to the youth publicly.

Now that problems had arisen, though, it would be convenient to have this newly appointed youngster step forward and deal with them.

If he failed, well, that would only prove he wasn’t being “bullied”—just incompetent.

He ordered someone to summon Lu Huan, then asked, “I wonder, what does the new Assistant Secretary think of these two urgent matters?”

Lu Huan lifted his gaze. “If I offer a plan,” he said evenly, “will the section heads see it through without fail?”

The section heads exchanged mocking looks. To them, he was clearly just a boy—no matter how well he wore the robes, how fine his posture or handsome his face, he was still a greenhorn with no experience.

Someone muttered under his breath, disdain thick in his tone, “He’s just a concubine-born son who got in through the back door. He barely attended the Imperial Academy, what clever plan could he possibly have?”

The Langzhong quickly barked, “Watch your mouth!”

Then, putting on a courteous smile, he turned to Lu Huan. “Please, go ahead.”

Lu Huan said calmly, “It’s simple enough to resolve both.

“As for the first—horses escaping is entirely due to the negligence of those on guard. Normally, we’d just hold the guards accountable. However, the guards in question belong to the Third Division’s camp, and since the Second Division is the weaker branch, it’s inconvenient to start a conflict with them—thus, it has become a lingering headache.”

He continued, “So, all we need to do is come to an agreement with the Third Division—reduce the number of soldiers assigned to stable duty and hire more professional mafu [grooms]. Soldiers are not skilled in handling horses and often abandon their posts. But grooms, paid in silver and being commoners, would never dare slack off under the Ministry’s eye. In this way, such incidents will no longer occur.”

Section Head A from Rongzhou gave a cold laugh and retorted, “And how do you know the Third Division would ever agree to that?”

Lu Huan’s expression stayed calm. “You likely overlooked something in the recruitment document from General Zhenyuan’s Mansion. Among the new recruits, some are to be assigned to the Third Division. That means the Third Division is clearly short-handed right now. If we reduce their horse-watch duties, why would they refuse? Besides, the wages for the grooms would come out of our Second Division’s funds.”

Section Head B, the former tanhualang [third-place scholar], looked troubled. He said tactfully, “But those wages would still be an extra expense. Wouldn’t that only increase our division’s financial burden?”

Lu Huan glanced at him and coolly laid out the numbers. “Hiring one groom costs half a tael of silver a month. Five grooms would cost just two or three taels monthly.

“I looked through the Second Division’s past records. Escaped-horse incidents occur at least twice a month, large and small alike. Each time, men must be dispatched to recapture them, and compensation must be paid to farmers for trampled fields. Each case already costs over ten taels of silver. Which, then, is the greater burden on our finances—can’t you tell?”

Section Head B’s face flushed with embarrassment.

The others didn’t want to admit it, but they had to concede—the boy’s reasoning was sound.

Section Head A sneered again. “And what of the second matter? Surely this ‘prodigy’ has a solution for that too?” He glanced around and saw several section heads showing faint signs of agreement; anger and unwillingness flared even hotter in his chest.

Lu Huan ignored his insolence and turned to the Langzhong, analyzing calmly, “As for the second issue—the disturbances and the missing weapons—it’s obviously the negligence of the transporting officials. But why would that happen? Transporting goods is not difficult; how could so many weapons simply go missing? It’s far too suspicious.”

“If we dig deeper, it’s nothing more than corruption up and down the chain. At every level, officials skim their share. By the time it reaches the bottom, those who can’t profit simply sell off the weapons, then claim they were ‘lost’ in transit.”

Section Head B said awkwardly, “It’s not as if we don’t know about these shady dealings. But the Second Division has too many clerks and officials, and they’re all linked in one chain. If we truly investigate, it’ll be a massive undertaking—months of work. The Second Division is already overextended, with no energy to punish them one by one. Besides, if it escalates and reaches His Majesty’s ears, we’ll be blamed for negligence.”

The Langzhong’s brows furrowed deeply; clearly, he understood how entangled the problem was. He asked, “Do you have any way to resolve it?”

Lu Huan’s reply was concise: “Let the capital’s merchants handle it.”

“First, it saves manpower—we can cut redundant soldiers and clerks, reducing expenses. Second, merchants who transport goods year-round are far more skilled at logistics than our half-trained officials, minimizing losses and preventing civilian complaints.”

“Third, this reduces opportunities for corruption and shields us if His Majesty investigates. Fourth, evaluate the merchants—there are dozens in the capital. Have them each present their bids and select the most suitable among them. Healthy competition will ensure whoever is chosen performs with the utmost care.”

Public-private cooperation was not unheard of in Yan Country, and the Second Division had the authority to implement it.

Yet the clerks had never once thought of this!

When discussing the issue earlier, they had only fretted over how to reprimand corrupt officials. None had considered approaching the matter from a new angle—and suddenly, the solution seemed obvious.

As soon as Lu Huan finished speaking, several clerks’ expressions changed at once.

The rest were equally astonished. The boy’s proposals were not empty talk but practical remedies that struck directly at the heart of their troubles.

But he was only fifteen—how could someone so young come up with such clear, incisive strategies?!

The Langzhong, though originally wishing to promote his own son, had to admit now—his son could never compare to this youth.

If things were handled as Lu Huan suggested, the long-standing problems plaguing the Second Division might truly be resolved.

The Langzhong’s face lit up with unguarded delight.

Many of the clerks, too, felt genuine admiration rising in their hearts. No wonder the Imperial Academy was known as the finest in Yan—its teachers were mentors to princes and even to the Crown Prince himself. The students it produced were, indeed, extraordinary.

Though still young, this boy was clearly no “decorative pillow embroidered with flowers” [pretty but useless]; he truly possessed skill and substance. His insight and strategy commanded genuine respect!

Still, though some of them felt convinced in their hearts, their pride wouldn’t let it show on their faces.

They were all men in their twenties or thirties, even a few in their forties or fifties—how could they stomach being directed by a boy?

Section Head A glanced around and saw that everyone had fallen silent, reluctant but clearly in agreement. Irritated, he couldn’t help but snap, “Do you even know the previous years’ records? You throw out these ideas so easily—if they fail to solve the problem, then what?”

Behind his desk, the youth gave him a sidelong glance and countered coolly, “And you—do you know the previous years’ records? How many horses last year? How many officials? How many weapons?”

“……” Section Head A, of course, could not answer a single question.

But Lu Huan recited without pause: “The year before last, there were 3,200 horses. Last year, with no wars, only 500. The year before last, the Second Division had 123 clerks; last year, that number increased to 163—some of whom likely purchased their posts. The year before last, we held two and a half armories’ worth of weapons; last year, many rusted, leaving just two armories full.”

There were more than ten ledgers in total, and Section Head B’s handwriting was notoriously chaotic—only he could make sense of his own records. Yet this boy, who had been in the Second Division for barely half a day, could already quote everything so precisely?

What kind of prodigious memory was this?!

At once, everyone was stunned into silence.

Lu Huan thought to himself that the simplified ledger she’d found for him had come in handy after all. Skimming through earlier, he’d seen that it contained only the essential figures; within a short time, he’d read it at a glance, memorizing it line by line. Now he could use that knowledge to silence them, and it was thanks to her efforts too.

The Langzhong of the Second Division stared at Lu Huan for a long moment, his expression shifting several times.

At last, he waved a hand and said to the others, “We’ll proceed according to the Assistant Secretary’s plan.”

The words Assistant Secretary left his mouth—an unmistakable acknowledgment of Lu Huan’s position as a Assistant Director of the Ministry of War (Sub-Fifth Rank).