Michael Bolton looked again at Charles Foster, who was tied up like a criminal, and thought to himself: everyone is scrambling to come for the review, but you—well, you had to be dragged here in ropes. If His Majesty hadn’t called you by name, you wouldn’t have come at all, would you?

What a disgrace, truly a disgrace!

If it weren’t for the need to maintain decorum, Michael Bolton would have pounded his chest and stomped his feet in regret for Samuel Foster. The old Fang family had been loyal and upright for generations—how did they end up with such a specimen?

The worst part was that this fellow had delicate skin and looked like a handsome young man. Bah! How is he any different from an opera performer? In all the noble families, which of the outstanding sons isn’t tall, imposing, and full of vigor?

“You are Charles Foster?”

Charles Foster felt embarrassed and was just about to say something.

Michael Bolton pointed at Charles Foster, his face stern, and said, “Untie his ropes.”

Two imperial guards came forward and untied Charles Foster.

Only then did Charles Foster feel a bit more comfortable, but before he could relax, the white-haired Duke of England, Michael Bolton, pointed at his nose and scolded him: “Your father is a hero—how did he end up with such a useless son? He can’t bear to discipline you, but I certainly will! You even sold your family’s ancestral property—worse than a pig or a dog…” With that, he raised his hand to strike.

Charles Foster was stunned. Was this really necessary? He wanted to dodge, but luckily, a few military officers nearby couldn’t bear to watch and quickly stopped Michael Bolton, saying, “My lord, today is the review. You mustn’t do this.”

Michael Bolton was so angry his teeth itched, and he said furiously, “Fine! Though I am the chief examiner by imperial order today, aren’t you, Charles Foster, also here for the review? I’ll keep my eyes on you and see if you, this good-for-nothing wastrel, dare to act up. Someone, hand out paper and brushes. Charles Foster, come sit here.”

He pointed to an empty desk at the front, his face cold.

Charles Foster clicked his tongue inwardly. In this situation, it was best to be cautious—this Duke of England didn’t look easy to deal with.

He obediently sat at the empty desk in front, and soon a clerk came to distribute brush, ink, paper, and inkstone.

Michael Bolton said with his hands behind his back, “Move my chair over here.”

Charles Foster felt awkward, but saw that Michael Bolton had already sat down right in front of his desk, staring intently at his every move.

The examinees behind, seeing this, all secretly rejoiced.

Michael Bolton then said, “In the Ming dynasty’s reviews, it used to be all about horsemanship and archery. But since the reign of Emperor Wen, it was decided that those alone could not determine a hero. So Emperor Wen issued a decree to change the test to policy essays. This is both to have you offer advice to the court and to test your learning. His Majesty has already set the topic. Bring it here.”

A clerk then came forward holding a placard. Charles Foster felt a chill down his spine under Michael Bolton’s gaze, but when he saw the topic, he ignored Michael Bolton.

On the placard were several large gold characters: “How to Pacify the Southwest.”

At a glance, it was clear: this was the emperor’s question—how to solve the problems in the southwest.

Since the early Ming, the court had incorporated the southwestern provinces into the empire. To govern Guangxi, Yunnan, and other regions, the court had set up many native chieftaincies and garrisons, appointing local chieftains to rule. But ever since the founding emperor, the southwest had never been peaceful for a single day. The local chieftains or natives would rebel every so often. Just last year, there was the “Fujiang Rebellion” in Guangxi. The court racked its brains to suppress the uprising, and Charles Foster’s father, Samuel Foster, was ordered to go to Guangxi to quell it. Although the rebellion was put down, the Ming army suffered heavy casualties and spent an untold amount of money and grain.

It seemed that the southwestern tribes had become a constant headache for the Hongzhi Emperor, and this time’s review had set such a topic.

The examinees, seeing the topic, all had a gleam in their eyes. These sons of meritorious families had long heard of the southwest’s troubles, and many of their fathers had experience suppressing rebellions there. Beating those tribesmen—wasn’t that easy?

So one by one, they picked up their brushes and eagerly began to write.

Charles Foster stared at the topic, pondering for a long time. He knew this was a hard-won opportunity for him. If he could rank among the top, he’d have a chance to redeem himself. But if he failed, he might be doomed to rot away for the rest of his life.

Charles Foster pulled himself together and looked up, meeting Michael Bolton’s gaze. Charles Foster actually gave him a friendly smile, but Michael Bolton’s face grew even longer.

If it were anyone else smiling like that, Michael Bolton would have thought the boy was decent and respectful.

But with someone like Charles Foster, the same smile made Michael Bolton instinctively suspect he was up to something.

He looked annoyed, but saw that Charles Foster had already lowered his head and started writing quickly.

Hmm?

He… actually knows how to write?

A son of the Fang family… can write?

Charles Foster really was writing. In his previous life, he had practiced calligraphy quite a bit, even joining a calligraphy club at school. Of course, he couldn’t compare to the great calligraphers of this era, but for his current identity, it was more than enough to impress.

He focused his energy, unusually serious, his wrist moving smoothly in one go. In his heart, he thought: if I’m lucky enough to win the golden belt, if anyone ever asks me, Charles Foster, to do acupuncture again, I’ll smack them with the golden belt.

Michael Bolton sat to the side, shocked and speechless. This kid… really can write!