This song, “A Man Should Strive for Strength,” is just perfect for belting out in that half-drunk, half-sober state. The stimulation from the alcohol made me more and more excited as I shouted, and waving my arms and stomping my feet was no longer enough to express my exhilaration. Still not satisfied, I simply snatched the drummer’s job from the band, pounding the drums as I roared. I sang a solo all by myself, squinting my eyes. The group of spoiled young men below gaped, eyes wide, faces twisted as if a herd of wild boars had just trampled over their heads. Emily Lincoln’s beautiful eyes widened in shock, her left hand half-covering her mouth, the other hand pointing at me—was she stunned by my heroic presence? Wahahaha...

　　Onward... haha, hum hum... Edward Lincoln got excited: “Come, let me play this song with you, my virtuous brother.” He pushed aside the band’s zither player and started playing along with my rhythm, shouting as he played. The duet began. William Clark got excited: “This is truly the voice of our hearts... I...” The trio began, then a quartet, a quintet, and finally a grand chorus of all the spoiled young men... The entire Duke Lu’s mansion echoed with this off-key rendition of “A Man Should Strive for Strength”...

　　George Lam crossed time and space for me; at this moment, George Lam has made his mark. Don’t give those spoiled brats any chance. In this moment, I am not fighting alone, I am not alone! The spirits of George Lam and James Wong possessed me, making these spoiled brats tremble in the face of my heroic and tragic singing... I roared, pounded the drums, vented, vented everything—past, present, future, this life... The torrent of sound and passion surged through my blood... The alcohol surged to my head, my bloodshot drunken eyes seemed to see a celestial fairy in a multicolored feathered dress, standing by my side with furrowed brows, her starry eyes shining with something indescribable. At some point, she raised her fair wrist and wiped the sweat from my brow. A faint coolness and delicate fragrance lingered in my consciousness. Who is she?...

　　...

　　The melodious sound of a flute echoed, colorful petals adorned the world, a long skirt as pale green as scallions, jet-black hair coiled high, a jade-green phoenix hairpin slanted in her hair, as if weaving through a sea of clouds. She stood with her back to me. I stared at her in a daze, full of curiosity—who exactly is she? It seemed she understood my thoughts, and began to dance slowly on the crystal-clear water, enchanting and magnificent. That slender waist, just enough for a hand to grasp, swayed gracefully and lightly. Each time her toes touched the water, it was as if she stepped on my heart, sending ripples of glassy light, overflowing with fragments of the moon across the sky...

　　Who are you? I asked her. Her dance finally slowed, sleeves drooping, head bowed, her entire figure beneath the light robe like a willow standing by the Milky Way on a moonlit night.

　　Too curious, I couldn’t help but step forward and take her soft, boneless hand. She slowly raised her head and smiled at me, her brows relaxed, eyes curved, a hint of drunkenness swirling, the corners of her mouth lifting in a perfect arc. So beautiful, so enchanting, it took my breath away. But... is there something wrong with my eyes? The more I looked, the more she resembled that little loli Emily Lincoln.

　　“Taylor... I am Taylor...” I heard her voice, and it sounded exactly like my maid Grace’s, yet so eerie and cold. I quickly shook my head and turned to run, but she grabbed me tightly: “Husband, where are you going? I am Taylor, your Taylor. What’s wrong, are you actually afraid of your own wife?” Oh god, her voice changed again. I turned back in astonishment, and her appearance changed—she became Grace...

　　“Ah! ...” I opened my eyes, drenched in cold sweat, my head splitting with pain. Damn that mixed liquor—my throat felt like twenty wolf-tooth clubs were churning inside. I didn’t even need to speak; just swallowing hurt so much my face turned green. I sat dazed on the bed, still shaken by that dream. It was terrifying—Taylor herself actually appeared. What’s wrong with me? I closed my eyes. Maybe it’s just that what you think about during the day comes to you in your dreams at night. I guess I’ve been afraid all this time that marrying Taylor would set me on the original path of history. I couldn’t help but feel relieved—without Taylor, that dream was probably the resentment of the Taylor who disappeared onto another historical track, directed at me, the butterfly from Colombia.

　　Comforting myself, I finally relaxed. Looking around, something felt off—this didn’t seem like my room.

　　I saw tea on the bedside table, scrambled over and grabbed the teapot, pouring it into my mouth. Warm, just the right temperature, it soothed my throat, which had been split open in countless places. I finally felt a bit better.

　　“Master Fang is awake? ... That’s great...” Someone arrived with the voice, the tightly closed door pushed open. He looked familiar—seemed to be the servant who led me and Edward Lincoln last night. Remembering that long spear that had whistled over my head yesterday, I couldn’t help but shiver.

　　“Well...” I opened my mouth—damn, the sound I made was worse than a rusty saw cutting wood. I decided to play dumb, squinting and twitching my mouth.

　　The servant stared at me blankly for a long time before suddenly slapping his thigh: “Master Fang, you want to ask how you ended up here, right...”

　　“...” I nodded. This guy’s comprehension was really lacking.

　　“Here’s what happened: last night, our young master saw you passed out drunk, so he had us help you rest here. Master Fang, please wait a moment, I’ll go inform His Highness King Jackson. His Highness specifically instructed this morning that as soon as you woke up, we should let him know immediately.”