“Your previous notes were extremely detailed. With a phrase like ‘The people may be made to follow it, but may not be made to understand it,’ you shouldn’t have any trouble understanding. If there’s anything you don’t understand, feel free to tell me now.”

Seeing Mr. Foster being so direct, James Bolton had no choice but to answer honestly, “Sir, I just feel that if we interpret this phrase the way you did at the beginning, it seems to contradict what you taught in the previous lesson. You explained before about ‘never tiring of learning, never weary of teaching,’ which suggests that the sage didn’t actually want to keep the people ignorant. Otherwise, why would he be so tireless in teaching?”

As soon as he finished speaking, he felt a bit of regret. In these times, the authority of the teacher was absolute, and students were not allowed to argue. Would this get him a scolding? To his relief, a faint smile appeared on Mr. Foster’s usually expressionless face.

“Xing Bing once commented in ‘Correct Meaning of the Analects’ that the way of the sage is profound and not easily understood by people, so the people should not be made to know it. You’re just a young student; it’s fine to raise such doubts with me, but don’t go making such comments outside.”

As he spoke, he stood up and searched the bookshelf for a while. When he turned around, he was holding a book that was neither new nor old. Casually handing the book to James Bolton, he said, “Take this book home and read it. Return it to me when you’re done. Go on.”

James Bolton quickly accepted it with both hands, catching sight of the title “Correct Meaning of the Analects” on the cover. He bowed in thanks. Only after leaving the small room did he let out a long sigh of relief.

Although the Analects had been annotated by countless people over thousands of years, and he himself had read a famous modern bestseller on the subject, he had never actually read the original in full. With such shallow knowledge, he didn’t dare show off in front of real scholars of this era.

But why did Mr. Foster give him this book?

On the way back, he flipped through it and found the margins filled with dense, small script—apparently notes and reflections. Realizing this was no ordinary book, he quickly tucked it into his robe and put on a dejected look as he entered the classroom. Sure enough, before he could even sit down, mocking laughter erupted from behind.

“Hey, just a good-for-nothing—what are you pretending for!”

“If the father’s useless, how could the son amount to anything?”

“All he knows is wagging his tail behind those two big shots!”

Even though James Bolton had developed a good temper after his rebirth, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of anger. But just as he stood up, a cold voice came from behind.

“If you’re really so capable, why did you cheat during the monthly exam?”

At these words, the classroom, which had been as noisy as a modern marketplace, instantly fell silent. James Bolton turned to look and saw a boy sitting in the last row. He wore a spotlessly clean white robe, with no valuable accessories on him, looking like a poor relative who had come to study from somewhere. Yet when he glared, all the laughing students immediately shut their mouths.

There are monthly exams in the clan school? James Bolton immediately noticed those words, then grew curious about the identity of this defender—he had no recollection of who this was. However, after saying this, the boy sat down and picked up his book, not saying another word. He looked every bit the part of someone who “pays no heed to the world outside the window, focusing only on the classics.”

“Acting all high and mighty—if we didn’t pay you for your answers when we cheat, your parents would have starved to death long ago!”

A low mutter came from the corner, but James Bolton heard it clearly, and his heart stirred.

Chapter 8: So Many Hidden Talents in the Clan School

As the sun set in the afternoon, the day’s lessons finally came to an end.

James Bolton let Edward Green and Thomas Green, his two study attendants, help him pack up, his eyes wandering over the students in the classroom. Spring was always a time when people felt drowsy, and after lunch there was only a short half-hour break, so many students ended up sleeping through two classes, some even snoring loudly. Yet even in such an unsuitable environment for teaching, Mr. Foster managed to keep his expression perfectly still and lectured fluently through both afternoon classes.

Both the students’ and the teacher’s performances left him in awe.

When most of the students had left, James Bolton glanced at the boy still packing his bag and quietly pulled Edward Green aside to ask, “Who’s that guy in the last row wearing white?”

Edward Green looked back, a trace of disdain appearing on his face as he explained, “Young master, that’s the old madam’s nephew, Benjamin Sullivan, but his family is from a concubine line. His father’s generation had a lot of children—two legitimate sons and five from concubines—so their family didn’t get much of the inheritance. They’re barely getting by thanks to our master’s support.”

So this boy was his cousin? And his family relied on his own father, Henry Bolton, to get by? These two facts left James Bolton a bit dazed, and he blurted out, “Isn’t he the old madam’s relative? Why does he need my father’s help?”

“Young master… Didn’t I just say? His father is from a concubine line, and he’s the most honest and useless of them all.”