Rubbing his wrist before finally looking up, he found that the expressionless Mr. Foster was standing right in front of him. He was still trying to guess this man’s intentions when, unexpectedly, the ink-soaked sheets in front of him were snatched away. When he saw Mr. Foster frowning as he looked through the pages one by one, he couldn’t help but feel his scalp tingle.

Good heavens, more than half of the characters in there were in simplified script!

He waited anxiously for what felt like ages, but Mr. Foster simply put down the stack of papers and said calmly, “It’s already quite good that you managed to remember all this. However, even if you can’t write all the characters, you mustn’t use these scribbles as substitutes in the future. Characters are the foundation of learning and must not be taken lightly.”

James Bolton felt as if he’d been granted amnesty, and hurriedly stood up to agree. Not until Mr. Foster left the room with his hands behind his back did he finally let out a long sigh of relief. At this point, it was clearly break time, and a group of waiting young attendants and pages outside rushed in all at once—some bringing tea to their masters, some bringing snacks, some massaging arms and legs—the commotion nearly lifted the roof off the house.

In these days, there were no wristwatches or wall clocks, so James Bolton had no way of telling the time; he only felt unbearably thirsty. So he gulped down some tea, ate a piece of date cake to fill his stomach, and then sent the two pages out. Who would have thought that as soon as those two nuisances disappeared, three more people suddenly appeared in front of him, one of whom swaggered over, grabbed a sheet of paper from his desk, glanced at it with a show of seriousness, and then burst out laughing.

“I thought you’d made some progress, Little Sam Bolton, but it’s just mistake after mistake, hahahaha!”

Chapter Seven: The Dignity of the Teacher’s Way, the Inferiority of the Student’s Way

Faced with this guy who had suddenly appeared, James Bolton merely shot him a sidelong glance, then desperately searched his memory, but came up empty—he really had no hope for his “memory.” Since he couldn’t recall who this person was, he could only clear his throat and say with confidence to the laughing youth, “It’s true, my writing is full of mistakes, but all together I’ve only attended school for a few dozen days over the past few years, so of course this is the best I can do.”

“Hmph, you haven’t been here for a month and now you’ve grown a backbone!”

The youth speaking curled his lip, then glanced at the two empty seats nearby, a smug smile appearing on his face. “Little Sam Bolton, those two big ones from your family are nowhere to be seen right now. You’d better be careful on your way home—don’t trip or bump into anything. It’s not easy for you to come to class for once, so don’t end up stuck at home sick tomorrow.”

Watching as the youth swaggered back to the third row with his two sidekick classmates, James Bolton couldn’t help but feel something was off about those words. Immediately, a jumble of chaotic memories surfaced in his mind—nothing but inexplicable trips and falls, or random stones flying out of nowhere, and all sorts of other mischief. He had originally thought these were just signs of his own bad luck, but it turned out he’d been getting sabotaged all along!

Could it be that the previous “him” was really that dull-witted?

He looked down at his own seemingly frail arms and legs, then at the two pages outside peeking in with loyal faces but who would be absolutely useless in a fight. Once again, James Bolton realized that might makes right. Although being threatened by a brat was hardly pleasant, when he saw Mr. Foster—who had just left—come back in to resume the lesson, he decided to set aside these vexing matters for now.

This time, the lesson was on the “Tai Bo” chapter of the Analects. Some parts were very familiar to James Bolton, but others he was hearing for the first time. Back then, he’d been more interested in history, and hadn’t read much of the Analects—besides, in his era, at least nine out of ten adults had never read the Analects in full.

For this chapter, Mr. Foster read through the entire text as written, then began to explain each point one by one, using clear and simple language that was easy to understand, but only explained each point once and never repeated himself. This forced James Bolton to put down his brush and listen with all his might, trying to understand. But when Mr. Foster reached a passage that had sparked much debate in later generations, James Bolton frowned slightly at the explanation—but only slightly.

However, when the class ended, the stern-faced Mr. Foster once again stood before him. “The people may be made to follow it, but may not be made to understand it. When you heard this line just now, you frowned. Is there something you don’t understand?”

As soon as he finished speaking, before James Bolton could answer, several students behind him started laughing. The youth whose name James Bolton couldn’t remember jeered, “Sir, you’re asking the wrong person. Little Sam Bolton has only been to class a handful of times—he probably didn’t understand a word.”

“Come with me.”

James Bolton had thought Mr. Foster was just asking casually, but when he heard this, he was slightly taken aback and quickly stood up to follow. Behind him, the students burst into laughter, but he paid them no mind and followed Mr. Foster straight into a small room around the corner. Seeing the other sit down, he felt a bit uneasy—if this were modern times, it would mean either a private scolding or a one-on-one tutoring session, but he had no idea what it meant for a clan school teacher to do this in this era.