William Carter tilted his head and listened for a while, but soon started yawning repeatedly. The Henry sitting next to him looked even more dazed, swaying back and forth, making him worry that this mountain of flesh might suddenly collapse with a crash.

Today’s lecture was on the Rites of Zhou. William Carter had never attended a class at the academy, but he truly couldn’t muster much desire to absorb knowledge; the Confucian classics—Poetry, Documents, Rites, and Spring and Autumn Annals—he had long since memorized by heart. Though his master was lazy, he liked to take him traveling everywhere, and along the way, they met many eccentric old men who often lectured him. Their lessons were far more vivid and interesting than those of David Harris.

As for rites, just as William Carter had said before, he believed they mattered more in the heart and should be adapted to circumstances. After all, aside from scholars, how many peddlers, porters, and ordinary folk could truly keep their attire proper at all times? That affected, delicate manner wouldn’t earn you a meal in the marketplace.

David Harris was indeed worthy of being a teacher with decades of experience. His clear and accessible explanations quickly helped the students grasp the essence of the text. After a brief pause, he invited the students to raise their own questions, which he then answered.

Soon, a short student raised a question. Judging by his age, he was probably not yet fifteen, his features still boyish and immature—likely the youngest in the class. But from the way others looked at him, it was clear this youth was no ordinary student. William Carter listened closely to his question and was immediately impressed. The boy asked: when rites and righteousness are in conflict, which should be chosen?

When William Carter was nine, he had asked this very question to a white-browed old Daoist on a mountain in Jiangnan. The old Daoist held his little hand and talked with him by the oil lamp all night long, still not satisfied even after William Carter fell asleep. The next day, he eagerly asked if William Carter understood. Luckily, William Carter was good at reading faces and nodded repeatedly, so the old Daoist finally let their master and disciple pair descend the mountain.

When David Harris heard this question, he sat up a bit straighter, frowned slightly, and after pondering for a moment, began to explain. William Carter listened for a while, but it was just reciting from the book—he found it rather dull, far less interesting than what the white-browed Daoist had said back then.

He turned to see the Henry beside him about to fall backward, so he quickly reached out to steady his back and patted his shoulder, waking him up.

“Huh? Is it time to eat already?” The Henry opened his eyes in a daze and said, sucking in the drool that had reached the corner of his mouth and smacking his lips, probably dreaming of something delicious.

“Not yet, it’s still early.” William Carter, afraid he’d get up and go eat, quickly tugged at his sleeve and whispered.

The Henry glanced at David Harris, who was still lecturing enthusiastically at the front, and at the students who were listening intently and nodding frequently. Realizing the situation, he turned and gave William Carter a simple, honest smile, lowering his voice: “Brother Yuan, I thought you were calling me to eat.”

William Carter glanced at David Harris, who was far too busy to notice them in their corner, then leaned in a bit and said with a smile, “I still don’t know what to call you?” Being called Brother Yuan was quite pleasing to William Carter.

“My name is Brian Cooper, but Brother Yuan, you can just call me Little White.” The Henry chuckled.

“Little White?” William Carter widened his eyes, swallowed, and then said seriously, “I’d better call you Little Henry, that feels more friendly. What do you think, Little Henry?”

“Everyone else calls me the Smiling Tiger, but with you and that demon girl, my nickname always changes…” Brian Cooper muttered softly.

But before he could continue grumbling, William Carter waved his hand to cut him off, pointed at the boy who had asked the question earlier, and asked, “Little Henry, who is that boy? He’s got a bit of my style, doesn’t he? He doesn’t look very old.”

“Him? He’s the academy’s prodigy, Edward Clark, fourteen this year. I heard he’s going to take the autumn exam this year—if he makes the list, he’ll become famous overnight. Even the dean praises his poetry for its spirit; he’s quite well-known in the academy and is called a child prodigy.” Brian Cooper followed William Carter’s pointing finger, speaking with a hint of envy. Noticing William Carter’s slightly furrowed brow, he quickly added flatteringly, “But compared to you, Brother Yuan, he’s nothing.”

William Carter smiled and nodded, accepting Brian Cooper’s flattery, and laughed, “Truly upright? Our dean is called Charles Bennett, so the two of them should really appreciate each other.”

It wasn’t that William Carter couldn’t stand others being praised; in fact, he was pondering which category he himself belonged to. If even Edward Clark could be called a prodigy, then what should he be considered? William Carter suddenly felt a bit troubled.

Chapter Five: At This Time, Still Young

Brian Cooper didn’t dare joke about the dean’s name with William Carter. He glanced left and right, then accompanied William Carter with a sheepish laugh.

After William Carter had laughed enough, he pointed at White House, who was sitting lazily at the front, tilting his head as he watched the students argue heatedly with David Harris, a faint, cold smile on his lips, and said with a smile, “This White House is quite interesting, just a bit cold.”