Martha Foster hurriedly jogged to catch up: “Mr. Clark, you’re so capable, you’ll definitely be able to help. All it takes is just a word from you.”

Edward Clark shook his head: “The Investigation Division supervises all the princes and nobles—I can’t put in a word for you. But I can help out, since I’ve got nothing else to do. Tomorrow, go to the Investigation Division and pick up a few cases. Be at the ward gate at the third quarter of the hour after dawn. If you’re late, I won’t wait.”

“No problem.”

A hint of delight appeared in Martha Foster’s eyes as he watched Edward Clark leave, standing there waving happily...

Chapter 9: Carrying a Rookie to Rank Up

Dong—dong—

The next day, the morning bell echoed throughout Chang’an, and as always, the sound of reading filled the various study halls of the Imperial Academy.

Grace Johnson’s eyes were slightly red as she paced back and forth in the Wenqu Courtyard, holding her books and reciting the classics she already knew by heart. The study hall was still not full of the sons of princes and nobles—most were dozing off, and very few students were actually following along with the reading.

Her father, the Grand Libationer Ethan Johnson, had long since been so infuriated by this group of hopeless cases that he stopped lecturing. Even with her gentle temperament, she was gradually running out of patience. She hadn’t slept well these past few days, and whenever drowsiness crept in, she could only pinch her leg to stay awake.

Thinking of her recent experiences, she couldn’t help but feel a bit annoyed.

That night at the Bell and Drum Tower, she’d intended to talk to Heir Clark about the rules for scholars, but instead, she ended up being hung from the tower, so frightened that she hadn’t recovered for days.

Being forced to copy the “Xue Ji” was one thing—she had earnestly finished copying the entire text in the freezing cold atop the Bell and Drum Tower. Only then did Heir Clark, who was sitting nearby drinking, finally say:

“The handwriting isn’t right. Copy it again, imitating my script.”

Wasn’t that just bullying?

She angrily threw down her brush, only to be hung from the Bell and Drum Tower again...

A flush of shame and anger crept onto Grace Johnson’s face.

Later, when it was nearly midnight and her wrist was sore, Heir Clark finally let her go. She’d planned to stay far away and let Heir Clark finish the rest himself, but unexpectedly, Heir Clark said:

“Be here on time tomorrow night, or I’ll let everyone in the Imperial Academy know you’re copying books for me.”

Sigh...

He was the legitimate son of a prince of a different surname and could afford not to care about his reputation. She, on the other hand, was born into a scholarly family, with her father and brothers all renowned Confucian scholars—how could she let such a thing get out? She could only show up at the Bell and Drum Tower at dusk, writing until midnight.

After seven days of this, she was utterly exhausted, while Heir Clark sat beside her drinking for seven days straight. Just thinking about it made her feel stifled...

Lost in her thoughts, Grace Johnson suddenly overheard the whispered conversation of several princes’ sons:

“David Smith, why aren’t you staring at Miss Ethan’s back today? Last time you were enjoying the view...”

Grace Johnson snapped back to attention, frowning slightly. Since they were all sons of nobility, she couldn’t scold them, so she tried to leave quietly. But just as she took a step, she heard David Smith speak:

“Don’t talk nonsense. A gentleman does not act improperly in private.”

“Tch~ You know ‘a gentleman does not act improperly in private’? Last time you were practically drooling. If Edward Clark hadn’t knocked some sense into you, who knows what you would’ve done...”

“I, David Smith, am not that kind of despicable person...”

“Yeah, right. None of us here are saints. Who are you pretending to be a gentleman for? Edward Clark isn’t here today, so if you want to look, just do it openly...”

“What if that drunkard suddenly comes back...”

“Oh~ so Mr. Smith is afraid of him...”

“Pah—get lost...”

“Hahaha...”

Hearing this, Grace Johnson stood frozen in place, holding her poetry book.

So Heir Clark... hit David Smith because his gaze was disrespectful?

Realizing this, Grace Johnson suddenly understood! So Heir Clark wasn’t being arrogant and overbearing—he was a true gentleman who didn’t care for empty reputation!

She remembered how she’d gone to scold Heir Clark that night for hurting someone without cause...

Grace Johnson paced back and forth a few times, her eyes gradually filling with a sense of guilt...

------

The warm winter sun shone down on Zhuque Avenue. The street was bustling with carriages and horses, temples and Daoist halls along the road were filled with incense, noblewomen rode by in carriages and sedans, and merchants who had traveled long distances took in the sights—a grand scene of prosperity.

Edward Clark rode his horse down Zhuque Avenue to the outside of Yongning Ward, where the timekeeping bell and drum sounded punctually from the watchtower.

The third quarter after dawn—right on time.

“Mr. Clark!”

As the horse stopped, Martha Foster ran over cheerfully to greet him, holding a small pouch in her hand and smiling:

“Those three thieves from yesterday were repeat offenders—they’d hurt quite a few of our brothers before. The yamen rewarded us with thirty taels of silver. This credit belongs to you, so it’s all yours.”

Edward Clark dismounted, but didn’t reach for the pouch. Leading his horse toward the street, he turned his head to glance over:

“What jobs did you take?”

Hearing this, Martha Foster perked up, quickly pulling out the ‘Wuchang Register’ from her clothes, flipping through a few pages, and pointing to several lines:

“With your help, I picked a few really tough jobs—no one in the entire Earth Battalion wanted to take them. The reward is great...”

“Alright, let’s go.”

“Mr. Clark, have you had breakfast?”

“……”

A short while later, at a street stall by the market, two bowls of lamb soup sat steaming on the table, filling the air with a delicious aroma.

Martha Foster sat at the small table with chopsticks in hand, speaking boldly:

“My treat—double lamb. If it’s not enough, I’ll order more.”