The eleventh year of the Hongzhi reign.

It is a beautiful morning.

At this moment, George Washington has just come of age.

At this moment, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin are sharpening their knives, preparing for the imperial examination.

At this moment, the Little Ice Age has arrived, and the long, harsh cold ravages the land.

At this moment, in the residence of the Marquis of Nanhe, the foolish son of the landlord, the legitimate heir of the Marquis of Nanhe, Charles Foster... begins his shameless and reckless life as a prodigal.

Chapter 0001: Don't Give Up Treatment

Charles Foster rubbed his eyes, looking blankly at the vermilion canopy and crimson curtains before him, while in the distance were furnishings like a xuanqin table and a round zitan stool.

Standing in front of the curtains was a fellow in a blue robe and cap, staring at him intently. Then this fellow revealed a face that begged for a beating, smiling with a sickening flattery: "Young master is awake..."

Charles Foster's heart skipped a beat. This is... transmigration... he had transmigrated! Because he clearly heard this blue-robed, capped man speaking in Fuyang official dialect. As a Ming history expert, Charles Foster could be one hundred percent certain that the furnishings here, and this inexplicable man, could never be set up in his own era, not even with the grandest film and television investment.

Instead of fear or panic, Charles Foster actually felt a faint excitement in his heart. After so many years of study, he never expected to get a glimpse of the ancients today!

The ancients... Looking at this guy with his somewhat cheeky smile, Charles Foster couldn't help but think, so... this is what the ancients are like?

"Is this the Hongzhi era?" Charles Foster saw a calligraphy painting on the wall, the inscription was by a calligrapher from the orthodox years of the Ming dynasty.

And by the bedside, the style of the xuanqin table also caught Charles Foster's attention. This was the style of the mid-Ming dynasty, which fell out of fashion after the Hongzhi reign. The xuanqin table looked newly made, so by this calculation, it must be the Hongzhi era.

The blue-robed, capped man nodded, but still stared straight at Charles Foster.

Having confirmed it, Charles Foster suddenly sat up from the bed, slapped his thigh, and said excitedly, "Is Prince Ning still around? Is there still a rebellion of the young prince in the north? Has the handicraft textile industry started to rise in the south..." Charles Foster's face was full of excitement: "The current emperor can be considered a wise ruler, there is much to be accomplished..."

Charles Foster was very excited. This was a great era. As a man, a scholar, and a student of history, there were always too many regrets. In his previous life, he hadn't achieved much, but now he had finally come to a place where he could put his talents to use.

Charles Foster couldn't help but want to laugh. Because he worked in a library and specialized in Ming history, not only did he know Ming history inside out, but he was also thoroughly familiar with the local records of this era. To put it bluntly, he could even recall which county had a few bandits on which date, thanks to his astonishing memory.

In his previous life, he was lonely and without support anyway. Coming to this era didn't seem so bad.

Even Charles Foster admired his own... big heart.

But the blue-robed, capped fellow's expression changed, and he hesitantly said, "Young master... you... you said... much to be accomplished?"

"That's right." Charles Foster perked up. Since he was the young master, this person must be either a study attendant or a long-term servant. Still caught up in his excitement, he said enthusiastically, "A real man should make the honor roll and achieve great things..."

At this point, the blue-robed, capped man's expression changed from confusion to grief. He cried out, "Young master... young master... the illness has relapsed... someone... help..."

Charles Foster was startled. What... what's going on?

Bang...

The door was suddenly burst open by several sturdy men, each looking fierce and wolf-like.

The sunlight from outside poured in, but these burly bodies blocked out the extra light.

Then, a trembling man in a scholar's robe, sporting a goatee and looking like a learned gentleman, hurried in with a medicine box on his back, exclaiming excitedly, "Young master, young master's illness... has relapsed again... quick, quick, acupuncture!"

At his command, the sturdy men rushed at Charles Foster and immediately restrained him.

Charles Foster's pupils contracted. Damn it, he cursed inwardly, because he saw the old gentleman had already taken out an inch-long silver needle from the box, looking heartbroken as he said to Charles Foster, "The young master's illness is a brain disorder, you must not avoid treatment out of shame. Come, come, don't be afraid, don't be afraid... one needle and you'll be fine..."

Charles Foster was so terrified his jaw almost dropped: "I... I'm not sick..."

The doctor, while performing acupuncture, shook his head and said, "That's right, these are the usual symptoms when the illness relapses. Young master, bear with it. This acupuncture method has been passed down from my ancestors. If you're sick, it cures you; if not, it strengthens your body. Young master, lie still!"

Ah...

With a scream like a pig being slaughtered, after a while, Charles Foster fell silent.

His hands and feet were held down, and as for the old gentleman, he directly stuck the silver needle into the back of his head. Charles Foster stopped screaming, but was so scared he clenched his teeth, not daring to move, afraid that if he did, the old gentleman's needle would go astray.

Most importantly, he had been afraid of injections since childhood!

Such a long needle, stabbed straight into his head—how is this curing an illness? This is murder, damn it!