Just as George Washington was lost in his thoughts, he saw a group of riders approaching not far away. At the head was a Mongol noble or general, dressed in a brocade robe with iron armor over it. As he drew near, he reined in his horse just a few steps in front of George Washington, swinging his riding crop and rudely sizing up George Washington from head to toe.

Jason Cooper had already stepped in front of George Washington, his eyes blazing as he stared defiantly at the group of horsemen.

The Mongol noble, with a sinister glint in his eyes, gave a cold, lazy laugh and asked in awkward Chinese, “So you’re the emperor of the southerners?” Though his accent was far from perfect, everyone present understood his question.

“Southerners” was a derogatory term used by the former Yuan dynasty for Han Chinese, the lowest of the four social classes established by the Yuan. It referred to the Han people and local minorities under the rule of the Southern Song, generally those living south of the Huai River. In the Yuan dynasty, they held the lowest status and suffered the most oppression and discrimination. Upon hearing this insulting term, the accompanying Oirat cavalry burst into loud, arrogant laughter.

All of George Washington’s men glared angrily. Although Patrick Hill was a Mongol by birth, his family had lived in the capital for two generations, serving as interpreters, and he was well-versed in literature and classics—practically a scholar by family tradition. He had long considered himself a Ming subject.

Jason Cooper’s face was as dark as iron, his fists clenched, eyes nearly spitting fire. If the emperor hadn’t been present, he would have risked his life to kill this scoundrel on the spot!

“What stray dog is barking so unpleasantly?” came a lazy, calm voice from the usually silent George Washington...

Chapter Twelve: Isn’t This a Bit Too Arrogant?

George Washington’s good mood vanished in an instant. Damn it, even a prisoner of war has dignity—let alone me, the most valuable POW in the world. Who the hell do you think you are, daring to insult me?

“What stray dog is barking so unpleasantly?” George Washington looked coldly at the burly Mongol noble, his gaze as if he were staring at a maggot writhing in the filth of a gutter.

“Scoundrel! How dare you insult me!” The Mongol noble’s face turned purple with rage at these words, his riding crop pointing straight at George Washington, eyes flashing with murderous intent.

But George Washington was not the least bit intimidated. He pushed aside the protective Jason Cooper, ignored the shouting Oirat cavalry, and fixed the Mongol with a gaze as cold as a blade. “I am the Emperor of the Ming. Even Saikan Wang, Bayan Temur, and Taishi Esen would not dare behave so rudely before me. Who do you think you are? Or do you believe your power and status now surpass those of Taishi Esen?”

As soon as George Washington finished speaking, the quick-witted Patrick Hill immediately shouted the emperor’s words in Mongolian. The previously aggressive Oirat cavalry exchanged uncertain glances, and even the murderous Mongol noble’s hand, which had just reached for his scimitar, froze in place.

“Torusun, what are you doing here?!” At that moment, David Reed, holding a half-eaten leg of lamb, ran over from the crowd and shouted angrily at the Mongol noble called Mark Allen. “He is the Taishi’s guest. If you want to cause trouble, take it elsewhere.”

“David Reed, you’re just a newly promoted chiliarch. What right do you have to shout at me?” Mark Allen retorted angrily at the hastily approaching David Reed.

David Reed grinned, his greasy mouth curling up, his gaze equally defiant. “I am under orders from the Taishi to guard the Ming emperor. If anyone in the army dares to be disrespectful, I will report it to the Taishi for judgment.”

Hearing this, and seeing David Reed’s men gathering around, Mark Allen, realizing he would not gain the upper hand, gave a muffled grunt, gritted his teeth, and said in a low voice, “The Taishi has ordered you to escort the Ming emperor to the central command tent for a banquet. I have delivered the message. Move!” With that, Mark Allen shot a venomous glare at George Washington, turned his horse, and rode off with his cavalry in tow.

“Your Majesty is truly bold, daring to act like this in our Oirat camp,” David Reed said, tossing the half-eaten leg of lamb to a nearby soldier and turning to smile at George Washington, his expression showing genuine admiration.

“If he had treated me with respect, why would I have acted otherwise?” George Washington wiped the cold sweat from his palms, but his face still looked heroic and resolute. After racking his brains, he finally managed to squeeze out a classical phrase: “Those who respect others will be respected; those who insult others will be insulted.”

Jason Cooper and the others couldn’t help but look at him with admiration and respect. But since George Washington was the emperor of the Ming, even more exalted than their lord, they certainly couldn’t rush over, hug his leg, and cry out “my lord.” Instead, they could only exchange glances, their eyes brimming with endless admiration.

As David Reed led the way to the heavily guarded central command tent, George Washington looked at the Oirat soldiers lifting the tent flap, sighed softly, and, steeling himself under David Reed’s urging, entered the tent from which laughter and singing could be heard.