Chapter 001: Born into a Prestigious Family, a Prodigal Son (1)

The eleventh year of Tianbao, summer, Great Tang.

At the second watch of the fifth night hour, as the first morning drum sounded atop the Chengtian Gate of Taiji Palace, the street drums on the marketplaces opposite each city gate of Chang’an responded in unison, “the six streets filled with dust as the drums echoed.”

A new day had begun.

This was originally the time for the emperor’s morning court, but during the Tianbao years, the world had long enjoyed peace, and Emperor Xuanzong George Thompson had grown lazy in state affairs, indulging in romance and seclusion, no longer insisting on attending court at dawn. Thus, the morning drum had become a mere formality.

The rear courtyard of The Bolton Residence. In the pale morning light, a youth in splendid attire, tall and handsome with refined features, leaned dreamily against a sturdy osmanthus tree, gazing into the distance at the layers upon layers of majestic palace eaves, and after a long while, let out a gentle sigh.

At this moment, perhaps that Charles Thompson is embracing the peerless beauty Mary Young, wishing only to remain drunk and never awaken.

“Spring nights are short, and one rises late; from now on, the monarch will not attend morning court.” The youth murmured these lines, then slowly turned to glance at the two delicate, timid, flower-like girls standing not far behind him, their heads bowed. The light in his eyes gradually became resolute and determined.

A cool summer breeze drifted by, carrying a peculiar scent through the air. It was a strange mixture of the smell of burning cow, sheep, and camel dung, mingled with the aromas of wine, flowers, and incense—a unique fragrance belonging to the imperial capital of flourishing Tang, Chang’an.

Chang’an had awakened. The sounds of people, carts, horses, camel bells, roosters, and dogs filled the air, and silence was no more. Yet the sound of wind chimes was not so prominent, often drowned out by the clamor. Those who had lived long in Chang’an could distinguish all sorts of movements from this cacophony.

The youth continued to stand silently, leaning against the tree.

The two beautiful maids exchanged glances, sharing looks of suspicion and surprise.

Although the third young master of The Bolton Residence was only eighteen, he was already a seasoned frequenter of brothels and flower houses in Chang’an, never returning before midnight and always rising late.

But today was strange. Before the morning drum had sounded, the two girls heard their master stirring and, not daring to be negligent, hurriedly dressed to attend him.

“Third young master... allow us to help you wash and change.”

One of the maids tiptoed over, her voice soft yet as clear and melodious as an oriole.

The youth’s body tensed slightly. He turned, his clear gaze falling on the young girl’s delicate, still-childish face, her features exquisitely painted with two small dabs of rouge. He gave her a gentle smile, about to reach out and pat her shoulder affectionately, when he saw her face tighten, her slender brows arch, and she instinctively stepped back half a pace, bowing her head and murmuring, “Third young master, this servant...”

The youth’s smile froze. His outstretched hand hung in midair, and at this moment, he felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

Though the maid appeared timid and respectful, in her frightened, rabbit-like eyes there was a faint, barely concealed look of disdain.

This reminded the youth once again that he was no longer the deputy mayor of a third-tier modern city who had switched from being a historian, but rather a prodigal son born into a prestigious family at the feet of the Son of Heaven in flourishing Tang—a good-for-nothing playboy whom even the maids, though fearful, looked down upon—a son of the famed chancellor of the Kaiyuan era, the illustrious minister of the High Tang, William Bolton.

William Bolton was no ordinary man. He had once held the highest office as chancellor, served as Minister of the Secretariat, and was a renowned poet, known as “the foremost man of Lingnan, the greatest minister of the High Tang.” Yet he was later outmaneuvered by the treacherous minister Edward Thompson, lost favor with the emperor, was dismissed and demoted, and eventually died of illness while returning home to pay respects to his ancestors.

Even so, the The Bolton Residence of Chang’an remained a prestigious household not to be underestimated. First, because of William Bolton’s great reputation and his many disciples and former subordinates throughout the court; second, because the reigning emperor still showed some favor out of respect.

How he had traveled a thousand years to find himself amidst the elegance of the Tang was no longer important—such a thing was shrouded in mystery, impossible to unravel. What mattered was how to survive. Fortunately for Henry Bolton, though his current identity was that of a prodigal, he still enjoyed a life of luxury and need not worry about livelihood. And as a former historian and modern official, adapting quickly to this identity and era should not be too difficult.

He sighed softly again. The youth waved his hand and said calmly, “Hazel, Grace, I’ll go back and rest for a while. You may leave.”

Hazel and Grace, the two beautiful maids, exchanged astonished glances once more, bowed in unison, and felt a strange, inexplicable sensation in their hearts: the third young master seemed somehow different from before.

His bearing, his manner, and the light in his eyes all seemed a bit clearer and brighter.

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