Henry Bolton stood on the outskirts, watching with a faint smile as the young scholars vied to take the stage and show off their poetic talents, the smile at the corner of his mouth growing deeper. Tang was a nation of poetry; according to unofficial histories, even peddlers and porters could recite a couple of sour verses. Though this was somewhat exaggerated, seeing it in person, it wasn’t too far from the truth.

He had no intention of joining in, but unexpectedly, the ever-watchful Philip Foster stood to the side, looking at him with a breezy, smiling air that made him irritated. Gritting his teeth, Philip Foster suddenly shouted, “Everyone, everyone, the third young master of the Zhang family, Henry Bolton, is a descendant of a noble house. I’ve heard he is learned and talented, inheriting the style of Chancellor Zhang. Since today is such a grand occasion, shouldn’t he compose a poem for us to broaden our horizons?”

“That’s right, that’s right! Young Master Zhang is exceptionally talented—he should give us a poem!”

“Chancellor Zhang’s talent and charm are renowned throughout the world. How could the third young master fall behind? Don’t you all agree?”

As soon as Philip Foster finished speaking, several of his attendants chimed in knowingly. Immediately, many other scheming young scholars also began to shout with ill intent, and the scene descended into chaos.

Everyone could tell that Philip Foster was maliciously provoking and mocking Henry Bolton, but still, many people joined in the ruckus, eager to see Henry Bolton make a fool of himself. With the Zhang family currently in trouble, there was no shortage of people ready to kick them while they were down.

In an instant, all eyes inside and outside the venue focused on Henry Bolton.

Henry Bolton raised an eyebrow, casting a cold glance at Philip Foster.

Philip Foster let out a string of strange laughs, thinking to himself, “You little thief of the Zhang family, didn’t you mock me before? Today I’ll give you a taste of your own medicine and make you a laughingstock!”

But the attention of the crowd did not mean they were rooting for him.

Henry Bolton’s trip to Qujiang today was mainly to seek a crucial breakthrough for the Zhang family’s crisis; he had no intention of showing off in a poetry contest. Some things are more urgent than others—resolving the family crisis was far more important than personal glory. Before achieving his goal, he didn’t want any unnecessary complications.

But plans can’t keep up with changes, just like how Matthew Bolton and Stephen Bolton ignored his advice and suddenly went to seek refuge with Edward Thompson. He hadn’t intended to get involved, but still ended up being pushed to the forefront.

Henry Bolton understood that at a time like this, Philip Foster’s malicious provocation was one thing, but if he shrank back, that would be something else entirely.

If he were still the good-for-nothing scoundrel of the Zhang family, making a fool of himself wouldn’t matter, since his reputation was already terrible; but that wastrel was a thing of the past—now, Henry Bolton had his own dignity!

If he didn’t take this step, it would be hard for him to stand his ground in Chang’an, in the Tang Empire. He would truly become a stinking pile of dog shit that everyone avoided, with no hope of ever turning things around.

Since that’s the case, what was there to hesitate for? On the contrary, wasn’t this a perfect opportunity to clear his name and restore his reputation?

Hesitation leads to chaos. As a modern scholar and a former official, Henry Bolton was decisive and resolute—once he made up his mind, he never hesitated.

With this thought, he steadied himself, walked forward calmly, and, under everyone’s gaze, gracefully entered the arena.

“Greetings, Madam! Greetings, esteemed guests.” Henry Bolton appeared composed, first bowing respectfully to Mrs. Grant, then cupping his hands in salute to all present, his manners impeccable.

Mrs. Grant arched her slender brows slightly, then turned with a smile to quietly ask Keith Young at her side, “Third brother, is this the prodigal son Henry Bolton from William Bolton’s family? He’s quite a handsome young man—how did he end up with such a reputation as a wastrel?”

Keith Young shook his head and smiled without replying. He had never met Henry Bolton before, only heard rumors that William Bolton’s youngest son was supposedly quite disgraceful.

William King also gazed at Henry Bolton with deep curiosity. For some reason, when Henry Bolton’s eyes met his, the literary leader of the age suddenly felt a profound, uncanny sensation, as if he had been seen through—something he had never experienced before.

Quentin Wade, on the other hand, secretly shook his head and sighed. He had met Henry Bolton twice at the Zhang residence and knew very well what kind of person this young master was. It pained him deeply—William Bolton was a renowned minister and scholar, famed for his talent, yet had produced such an unpromising wastrel of a son!

Outside the arena, Philip Foster and the others hadn’t expected Henry Bolton to actually have the nerve to step up. Shrinking back would make him a clown, but if he took the stage and failed to compose a poem, or recited utter nonsense, he would be utterly humiliated.

Chapter 013: A Chorus and a Wager (1)

Harold Crane frowned slightly.

No matter how unworthy Henry Bolton was, on the surface, he was still the future son-in-law of the Cui family.

As long as the engagement between the Zhang and Cui families remained, Henry Bolton’s status as Eugene Crane’s fiancé would not change. Therefore, seeing Henry Bolton about to be embarrassed, Harold Crane actually felt rather uncomfortable.

But at this point, there was nothing he could do. He could only hope that Henry Bolton knew at least a little poetry, and could manage to compose something to get through the occasion, so the Cui family wouldn’t be shamed along with him.

Frederick Shaw and Ethan Brooks, on the other hand, glanced at Henry Bolton with disdain before turning their heads away. The two of them sat together, arms around each other’s shoulders, pointing at the blooming lotuses on the surface of Qujiang Pond in the distance, chatting and laughing as they admired the scenery, not paying Henry Bolton the slightest attention.