Sheltering the remnants of rebel traitors is a crime punishable by extermination of the entire clan. The monks of Jixiang Temple and the nearby farmers had neither kinship nor ties with him, Peter Bolton; not handing him over to the authorities was already the greatest kindness they could offer. How could they possibly let him into their homes and treat him to good food?

“Brother Zhang, don’t worry about it too much!” Seeing Peter Bolton’s face grow increasingly grave, the chubby Brian Brooks, though well aware that a man of great ability should not react so strongly to mundane matters, still kindly reminded him.

After the earlier stammering, Peter Bolton’s communication with him had become much smoother. He smiled and nodded lightly, “I understand. I won’t interfere. Thank you for the reminder, Brother Ren!”

“Brother Zhang, no need to be so polite!” Brian Brooks shook his head with a smile and continued to chat idly.

Since Chang’an had just been drenched in blood, rushing there at this critical moment didn’t seem very wise. Peter Bolton had originally wanted to ask the chubby guy: do you know someone named Li Longji? What is he doing now? Is he surrounded by talented people, or does no one think highly of him? However, on second thought, given his current situation, even if he joined Li Longji, he’d most likely end up as cannon fodder, so he decisively gave up on the idea.

As he chatted idly with Brian Brooks, he suddenly saw a checkpoint ahead. All the people heading to Chang’an—whether by carriage, on horseback, or carrying loads—were lining up properly in two long queues before the checkpoint, one to the left, one to the right.

“What are they checking for? The Crown Prince’s remnants?” Peter Bolton was taken aback and instinctively stopped, gazing into the distance.

In the dusk, he saw that those on the left—riding horses, in carriages, or wearing round hats with rabbit-ear flaps—were all taking out a bamboo slip from their chests and showing it to the officials at the checkpoint for inspection. Those on the right, carrying loads or not, but with cloth headscarves, would lift their faces to be identified one by one by several old men standing at the checkpoint. (Note: Rabbit ears refer to the two “wings” at the back of Tang dynasty hats.)

“Brother Zhang, the travel permit, the travel permit, quick!” Afraid of wasting too much time and missing entry into the city, Brian Brooks grabbed Peter Bolton’s hand, weaving around the line toward the checkpoint while urging him in a low voice, “I know someone here, we can get through!”

“Travel permit?” Although Brian Brooks was clearly trying to help him cut the line, Peter Bolton didn’t understand why he needed a travel permit, so he frowned and stopped again.

“Travel permit, Brother Zhang, do you have one?” Brian Brooks hesitated, looking Peter Bolton up and down for a long while before confirming he wasn’t just playing dumb. He stomped his foot and added in a strange Tang-accented whisper, “Pass, Brother Zhang, pass, for verification!”

“Pass?” Peter Bolton could already match a few Tang pronunciations to 21st-century Mandarin, but he still didn’t know what “pass” meant, so he shook his head hesitantly.

“You really don’t?” Brian Brooks couldn’t believe his ears and pressed in a low voice.

By now, he was starting to doubt whether Peter Bolton was really some great master!

Legendary masters were either monks or Taoists. But Peter Bolton had neither a monk’s nor a Taoist’s travel permit!

Not having a travel permit might be fine—after all, there were many recluses in the legends, usually hiding in the countryside and only occasionally coming out to find a fated disciple to pass on their skills! But this great master Zhang didn’t even seem to have the “pass” required for travel!

Without a pass issued by the local authorities, and not being a monk or Taoist, how could he have come from Hejian to Chang’an?

How did he get through the checkpoints along the way, or stay at inns?

He’d probably be stopped by a petty official and tied up to be sent back home before he even got twenty li from his hometown, then have his butt whipped raw by the village head!

“Really!” Peter Bolton was getting flustered by the questioning, but kept a straight face and nodded firmly.

Now, he finally understood what a “pass” was! It was the Ming dynasty’s travel document. Good grief, wuxia novels are so misleading! The heroes travel all over the land, but none of them ever carry such a thing!

‘Thank goodness we haven’t reached the gates of Chang’an yet! This is just the first road checkpoint!’ No sooner had he thought this than, before the soldiers and officials at the checkpoint could notice, Brian Brooks grabbed Peter Bolton and turned to leave. “Brother Zhang, you’re bold! Don’t you value your life?!” (Brother Zhang, you’re really gutsy—don’t you want to live?!)

“Where are we going?” Peter Bolton also realized that without a pass, he was in for big trouble today. He didn’t dare resist and let Brian Brooks drag him quickly away from the checkpoint.

“Let’s go!” At this point, Brian Brooks didn’t care whether Peter Bolton was a master or not—making sure he didn’t get arrested and implicate his own family was the real priority.

Glancing back, he decisively broke into a jog. “To my house. The pass—I’ll help you figure it out!” (To my place, the pass, I’ll help you with it!)

Chapter 10 Olivia Brooks? My buddy is George Washington

“You bastard, you dog without a father or mother! Yvonne Harris’s Lego was definitely stolen by you! Confess now!” A gang of little bullies cornered seven-year-old Peter Bolton behind the school building, whipping him with willow branches. He swung his schoolbag desperately to defend himself, but his thigh was still struck repeatedly, each blow sending pain deep into his bones.

Suddenly, someone tripped him, and he fell flat on his back. The bullies cheered and swarmed over him. Just then, a heavenly voice rang out from above, “What are you doing? What do you think you’re doing? Do you want me to call your parents?!”