During the Xining era, Emperor Shenzong Zhao Xu had just ascended the throne, while Ouyang Xiu, Han Qi, and Fu Bi—heroes of their age—were in their twilight years.

The stubborn prime minister was full of ambition, determined to turn the tide; Sima Niu lay low in the countryside, steadfastly upholding the nation's foundation; Master Dongpo sat on the fence, wavering between sides.

This was supposed to be the last glorious chapter of the Song dynasty’s greatest team of civil officials, but these geniuses chose mutual destruction, leaving the Song with a wound that would never fully heal.

And leaving history with endless regret and controversy.

However, the sudden arrival of a rookie lawyer opened up a middle path for the Song dynasty.

Old and new alike would be subject to the law; civil and military alike would be subject to the law; inside and outside alike would be subject to the law.

"I, Michael Bolton, declare that the Treaty of Chanyuan expires today and will not be renewed. The Sixteen Prefectures of Youyun are the ancestral lands of China."

Chapter One: The Mad Prisoner Michael Bolton (Part 1)

The first year of Xining.

Dengzhou Prefecture Prison.

A cell that had not seen the sun or moon for years—damp, cold, and filled everywhere with a nauseating stench.

Wooden doors made of sticks divided the already small cell into more than twenty rooms.

Inside each room, there was only a bed made of bricks, piled with a kind of dry grass called a "mattress," barely long enough for a person of 1.6 meters to stretch out their legs. Beside the bed sat a battered little wooden bucket. Other than that, there was nothing else, so it was unclear whether the bucket was for washing or for urinating.

Just living here was already a form of torture.

For those guilty of heinous crimes, this was no more than they deserved.

But there are always exceptions.

Not everyone who lived here was supposed to be here.

Clang, clang—the sound of metal.

The cell door opened, and two jailers entered. Even though they were used to coming here, they still instinctively covered their mouths and noses as soon as they stepped in, sweeping angry, disdainful glances over every prisoner inside, as if blaming them for their filthiness, or perhaps wondering how they could survive here for so long.

But the prisoners showed no reaction; only a few glanced up briefly before going back to sleep, unlike in TV dramas where the opening of the cell door would bring a chorus of cries for justice.

Clearly, they were either highly resigned to their fate, or had already lost hope and expected nothing.

The two jailers, suppressing their nausea, walked to the innermost cell. Inside sat a man, his back against the wall, head bowed, hair covering his face so his features were unclear. But his clothing was different from the others: a gray, round-collared shirt, tight trousers, and, like the others, straw sandals, dotted with many fresh scabs of blood.

Like the others, he showed no reaction to the jailers’ arrival.

One of the jailers called out, "Michael Bolton."

The prisoner slowly raised his head. Though his face was dirty, it could not hide his handsome features; he looked no more than twenty-four or twenty-five.

"You may leave now."

As he spoke, the jailer opened the cell door.

The young man called Michael Bolton showed no sign of joy. He simply closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath, then slowly stood and stepped outside, stretching his arms a little. He was half a head taller than the two jailers. Suddenly, he raised his sword-like eyebrows and questioned the jailers, "Is that it?"

The two jailers looked confused and exchanged glances. One asked, a little puzzled, "What else did you expect?"

The other was less patient. Seeing the prisoner’s arrogant expression, he immediately scolded, "What more do you want?"

Michael Bolton suddenly chuckled. "Gentlemen, please don’t misunderstand. I just wanted to thank the magistrate for clearing my name, and thank you both for taking care of me these past days."

"That’s more like it."

The jailers’ expressions softened a little.

Michael Bolton suddenly asked, "By the way, gentlemen, which way is the main gate of the yamen?"

"Why do you ask?" one jailer eyed him warily.

Michael Bolton replied sincerely, "It’s like this: I know the magistrate is busy and can’t accept my thanks in person, so I’d like to go to the main gate and bow as a token of my gratitude."

The two jailers, hearing this, found it reasonable. After all, it was their magistrate who had helped clear Michael Bolton’s name, so they told him the direction of the main gate.

Leaving the prison, though it was already early autumn, the sun hanging in the sky was still as fierce as in midsummer. The blazing sunlight made Michael Bolton squint, his vision swimming, nearly fainting.

The two jailers hurried to support him, then forcibly led him to the main gate of the prison, pushed him out, and closed the door behind him.

As long as he didn’t collapse here, it was no longer their concern.

In other words: just go die somewhere else.

Already dizzy, Michael Bolton was nearly knocked over by the push. He used all his strength just to steady himself, bent over and gasped for breath several times before slowly straightening up. Suddenly, he raised his head, and the gentle smile from before was gone, replaced by a face full of grief and anger.