The first household, before he even reached the door, hurriedly slammed the wooden gate shut—faster than the monks at Xiangji Temple. At the second house, he knocked on the courtyard gate for quite a while, but there was only silence inside. The third household’s door was left ajar, but just as he stopped at the entrance, his finger not yet touching the door, a watchdog the size of a donkey burst out from within!

“Don’t bite, I’m not a bad guy!” Too exhausted to fight a dog, Peter Bolton turned and ran. He sprinted for more than half a li before finally shaking off the watchdog.

“Damn it, what happened to the promised hospitality in a bountiful year? What about drinking and chatting in the mulberry fields? What about the joy of friends coming from afar? Lies, it’s all lies in the books!” Supporting his knees, panting and cursing, Peter Bolton once again felt like crying but had no tears.

No one responded to him, only the endless barking of dogs echoed across the open fields. “Woof woof, woof woof, woof woof woof woof woof woof...”

Chapter 9: Getting Papers, Tang Dynasty Style

“Damn, if I’d known Tang people were this stingy, I should’ve risked chatting longer with that guy named Ren. At least I could’ve asked what Li Longji is doing now, and which way his house faces!” After being turned away several times and nearly bitten by a dog, Peter Bolton couldn’t help but secretly regret it.

That group led by Ren was a bit too enthusiastic, but so far, they hadn’t shown any malice. Yet, ever since leaving Xiangji Temple, everyone Peter Bolton met along the way treated him like a plague god. In comparison, Ren’s group suddenly seemed much more likable.

But after leaving so coolly just now, Peter Bolton felt a bit embarrassed to turn back. As he straightened up, catching his breath and preparing to try his luck at the next farmhouse, a familiar voice suddenly sounded in his ear: “Sorry, sorry...”

“I’m not a master, I told you before!” Peter Bolton was getting annoyed, turned his head and loudly corrected, only to see Brian Brooks’s sweat-soaked face.

This time, Brian Brooks was alone, without his usual followers. He wasn’t riding a horse either, and his slightly chubby legs were moving fast. Afraid Peter Bolton would ignore him, he ran while frantically shaking the leather pouch in his hand, “Sorry, water, water! (Master, water, water)”

“Thank you!” Having learned from last time, Peter Bolton already knew the pouch contained sweet fermented rice wine. He was immediately touched, smiled, and stepped forward to take the pouch Brian Brooks had brought, untied the cord, and gulped it down.

The millet-brewed wine still had a faint sour taste, but to Peter Bolton, it was sweeter than before. While he drank, Brian Brooks stood by happily watching, his chubby eyes curving into crescent moons, as if he’d had a drink himself.

“This little chubby guy probably isn’t a bad person!” Peter Bolton was more guarded than most his age, but he wasn’t cold-blooded. Seeing Brian Brooks sweating from running, he quickly stopped, wiped the mouth of the pouch, and handed it over with a smile, “You, have some too!”

“No, no—” Brian Brooks didn’t quite understand Peter Bolton’s words, but he got the gesture and quickly waved his hands in embarrassment. In the end, though, he couldn’t resist his thirst or the other’s insistence. After a few polite refusals, he smiled and took the pouch, drinking heartily straight from it.

Two young men who’d just finished running had no trouble polishing off a pouch of wine. Three minutes later, the pouch was completely empty, and the relationship between Peter Bolton and Brian Brooks had grown much closer.

“What about the others, and your horse?” Looking around, Peter Bolton didn’t see the annoying, scruffy doctor or the others with headscarves in the growing dusk, so he asked with a smile.

Brian Brooks still didn’t quite understand, but followed his gaze and looked around, then answered cautiously, “Wulei Pavilion, this place is Wulei Pavilion! (Wuliting, this place is Wuliting)”

“Sigh—” Peter Bolton shook his head in frustration, then squatted down and wrote on the ground with a stone: “Where are the others, and where’s your horse?”

This sentence didn’t fit Tang dynasty grammar, and some words were from later periods. But after pondering it twice, Brian Brooks managed to get the gist. He smiled awkwardly, squatted down, and slowly wrote with a stone: “Foolish, disturbed master, far away, following!”

‘So they’re following from a distance.’ Once again, Peter Bolton sensed goodwill in Brian Brooks’s words. He smiled and quickly corrected, “I’m not a master, my surname is Zhang!”

‘Alright, if you say you’re not, then you’re not.’ Brian Brooks looked at Peter Bolton’s bald head and strange clothes, thinking to himself. But he kept writing, “This place is called Wuliting. Zhuque Gate is not far. Are you heading to Chang’an? Hurry, the city gates are about to close!”

There was no punctuation, but he carefully spaced out the words and sentences. Peter Bolton understood at a glance. He quickly dropped the stone, stood up, and cupped his hands, “Chang’an, I’ll go ahead!”

“I’ll go with you!” Brian Brooks also stood up quickly and took the initiative to walk ahead.