Knowing full well that he couldn’t possibly be truly heading the same way, Peter Bolton still couldn’t bring himself to refuse his kindness any longer. He had no choice but to quicken his pace and catch up, smiling and nodding, “Thank you, Brother Brooks.”

Knowing that he couldn’t understand his words, Brian Brooks waved his hand lightly, then hurried on, making the most of every moment. However, after only seven or eight steps, he realized that at this pace, he really wasn’t confident they could get Master Bolton into the city before the gates of Chang’an closed. He quickly stopped again and wrote on the ground with a stone: “Horse, ride?”

“No!” Peter Bolton decisively waved his hand.

This gesture, Brian Brooks could understand. He stood up helplessly and continued to grit his teeth and speed up, soon sweating profusely again.

Seeing that he was overweight and out of shape, Peter Bolton couldn’t bear it. He simply stopped, speaking as he wrote on the ground with a stone, “I’ll walk, you ride the horse, let them bring the horse to you!”

“Together, walk together!” Brian Brooks, panting heavily, stubbornly shook his head.

This time, he didn’t squat down to write, but Peter Bolton understood what he meant. Smiling, he took the initiative to slow his pace.

The chubby Brian Brooks instantly realized that, in fact, the two of them could hope to have some simple conversations even without writing. He was so delighted that he forgot his fatigue. As they walked, he gestured with his hands and asked, “Sorry, Brother Bolton, how old? (your age)”

“How old?” Peter Bolton was taken aback, but it didn’t take much effort to realize that “how” was actually “your,” and he smiled as he answered, “Twenty-one—no, twenty-two, according to your way of counting.”

Fearing that Brian Brooks wouldn’t understand, he deliberately extended his right index and middle fingers, making two twos, one facing up, one down.

Brian Brooks understood, both the words and the gesture, and happily waved his hands and feet, “Me, eighteen. I’m younger, you’re older!”

This sentence, Peter Bolton understood directly, so he nodded with a smile.

Brian Brooks was greatly encouraged and gestured again, “Me, Chang’an. Brother Bolton, where?”

Peter Bolton felt a pang at the question, looked around, and a trace of melancholy appeared on his face, “Me, Shi—, no, Hejian.”

“Hejian?” Brian Brooks was stunned again, quite doubtful—how could the accent of Hejian be so different from Chang’an? However, he didn’t have the courage to question a master. After hesitating, he took the initiative to change the subject.

This chubby fellow was intent on becoming a disciple of a master, so he kept making conversation to get closer to Peter Bolton. As for Peter Bolton, he also hoped to learn a few phrases of Tang dialect as quickly as possible through conversation. So, the two of them hit it off: when gestures sufficed, they gestured; when not, they squatted down to write. The more they talked, the more smoothly and congenially things went.

After all, being four years older than Brian Brooks and having had to grow up fast as a poor child, Peter Bolton tried to avoid talking about his own background during their conversations. The chubby Brian Brooks asked several times, but each time Peter Bolton brushed it off with “very far away” or “not convenient to say.” As a result, the more mysterious he seemed, the more Brian Brooks was in awe, his eyes practically sparkling with admiration.

As for the knowledge he urgently needed, Peter Bolton tried to ask as simply and directly as possible. The chubby Brian Brooks was sometimes left suspicious by his questions, thinking that even a master shouldn’t lack such basic common sense. But then he’d convince himself that perhaps this was a test from the master, and would answer honestly, holding nothing back.

In this way, going back and forth, and comparing with the scraps of historical knowledge left in his mind, Peter Bolton finally managed not to be completely in the dark about the current Great Tang. He also finally understood why the monks at Jixiang Temple and the common folk along the way had treated him like a thief.

It turned out that not long ago, a bloody incident had occurred in Chang’an. The crown prince Andrew Jackson was suddenly “kidnapped” by his own trusted followers, who led three hundred loyal men to storm the mansion of the prime minister James Monroe, hacking the latter to pieces. Immediately after, the rebels “dragged” the crown prince to attack the imperial palace.

Unfortunately, three hundred men were far from enough. In the end, His Majesty the Emperor himself appeared and shouted a single command, and the three hundred “rebels” scattered like birds and beasts.

The crown prince Andrew Jackson was then “dragged” by a handful of rebels to the foot of Mount Zhongnan. First he begged for mercy, but was refused by Martha Washington. Then, suddenly remorseful, filled with guilt toward his father and Martha Washington, he found an opportunity and hanged himself from a southeast branch.

The emperor was a wise and enlightened ruler, and Martha Washington was also “compassionate,” so of course they wouldn’t implicate the innocent. They merely punished a few remaining troublemakers in the city and sent people to Mount Zhongnan to retrieve the crown prince’s body. Even so, when “retrieving” the body, the imperial guards inevitably clashed with the rebels.

As a result, there was quite a bit of bloodshed in the city. Outside the city, who knows how many people lost their lives near Mount Zhongnan, and the stench of blood lingered for days before dissipating.

With so many people having just died at the foot of the mountain, the young nobles of Chang’an naturally wouldn’t come to Jixiang Temple to admire the autumn scenery. The wild beasts in the mountains, on the other hand, were all lured out by the smell of blood.

Peter Bolton didn’t get lost earlier or later, but just happened to lose his way at the foot of Mount Zhongnan a few days after the stench of blood had faded. If the wolves, now used to eating human flesh, didn’t chase him, who else would they chase?