Ethan Cooper stood still, and the space he made way for now led directly to the Emperor’s side. His expression changed; he quickly composed himself and stepped forward respectfully to salute the Emperor. “This young man was reckless. Greetings, Your Majesty.”

Brian Clark looked closely at the elegant and dashing young man before him. “So you are Ethan Cooper?”

Ethan Cooper lowered his head even further. “Yes.”

This Ethan Cooper was interesting—a renowned talent in the capital. There were two things he’d done that Brian Clark remembered. One was on the day of his coming-of-age ceremony, when his loyal fans besieged the Chang residence; some even tried to climb over the walls, eventually alarming the authorities, who sent soldiers to arrest people. The other was somewhat related to Brian Clark himself: Ethan Cooper had once composed thirteen poems in a single breath, satirizing the powerful who were ignorant of the people’s suffering. Not only did he mock the influential minister Lu Feng, but he also implied that the Emperor himself was failing in his duties.

To put it bluntly: “You people with boundless power care only for your own petty interests, ignoring the common people. You let all the suffering masses of the world support you bigwigs who only know how to feast and dress in finery. I think you’re all trash.”

These thirteen poems offended a large group in the capital, and his father was demoted because of it. Only after the uproar died down did this fellow start writing poetry again. Yet, after this incident, Ethan Cooper’s reputation only grew wider.

Thinking of this, Brian Clark’s smile deepened. “Do you also have a poem to present?”

Whether it was prose or poetry, Ethan Cooper’s writing was always exquisite. Even better, he was famous—a natural talent for stirring public opinion. Brian Clark just happened to lack someone who could sing his praises, keep him on the moral high ground, and pave the way for his policies.

Ethan Cooper’s mouth was dry. He had indeed prepared a poem, and he’d finished it even before the garden stroll. But that poem… was deliberately written, another satirical piece in the vein of “Behind vermilion gates, meat and wine go to waste, while out on the road lie the bones of the frozen poor.”

He had thought that if his father took the initiative to have him recite a poem before the Emperor, he would truly dare to read that one aloud.

Brian Clark saw his silence and smiled. “Stand up straight and lift your head.”

Ethan Cooper instinctively obeyed, and when he looked up, he saw the Emperor’s smiling face gazing at him.

The Emperor looked at him with appreciation and said to the ministers at his side, “The young talents of Great Heng are all outstanding men, upright and admirable.”

Ethan Cooper’s ears instantly turned red, and a wave of shame welled up in his heart.

The ministers echoed with laughter, “The Chang family’s son has the talent of a top scholar.”

Ethan Cooper’s father, the Deputy Minister of Justice, stood on the outskirts. Hearing the ministers praise his son, even his stern and serious face couldn’t help but break into a smile.

Whatever the Emperor praised, the ministers would follow suit. Brian Clark smiled, turning slightly to listen to his officials, his chin nearly buried in the fur of his cloak.

Ethan Cooper dared not look directly at the imperial countenance, so he lowered his head slightly, fixing his gaze on the Emperor’s chin.

The Emperor was tall and slender, but extremely thin; there wasn’t much flesh on his chin, but its shape was pleasing. Ethan Cooper recalled how the playboys in the capital, when harassing respectable women, liked to grab such chins before making their move.

Fortunately, the Emperor was the Emperor—no, the Emperor was a man. Ethan Cooper, what nonsense are you thinking?

If those playboys dared to grab the Emperor’s chin, they’d probably be executed and have their families confiscated the next moment.

Ethan Cooper shuddered imperceptibly, secretly cursing his luck and blaming Owen Reed—why did he have to trip him up?

“Yuyan?” the Emperor called, “What poem have you composed?”

Ethan Cooper’s heart leapt into his throat. He quickly turned his head to the side and, at first glance, saw layers upon layers of plum blossoms.

A flash of inspiration struck him. “This poem of mine is precisely an ode to the plum blossom.”

The satirical poem he’d prepared earlier was pressed down in his heart, and Ethan Cooper improvised a new poem, ending with two lines praising the present spring day.

Brian Clark nodded and smiled. “Full of spirit.”

Ethan Cooper kept his eyes on his nose and his nose on his heart, still staring at the Emperor’s chin. This time, in his haste, his gaze lifted and took in the Emperor’s pale lips as well.

Those lips were neither thin nor thick, the corners slightly upturned, as if born to smile.

Brian Clark thought this young man wasn’t bad. After reading those thirteen poems before, he’d thought him a reckless youth, but it turned out he had some sense.

He called Ethan Cooper to his side to accompany him, strolling through the garden, occasionally exchanging a few words. The ministers at the Emperor’s side cast subtle glances at Ethan Cooper again and again, wondering how this young man had caught the Emperor’s eye.

*

Owen Reed waited leisurely at the very back, expecting the Emperor’s fury.

He knew Ethan Cooper well; even if only to spite his father, Ethan Cooper would make a scene. But as time ticked by, laughter continued at the front, and Ethan Cooper was still mingling there, not returning.

Owen Reed’s brows gradually furrowed. Could it be that Ethan Cooper hadn’t made a move yet?

He still wanted to see the young Emperor’s embarrassment, to witness his anger. He had even sent people to wait outside the palace, ready to spread Ethan Cooper’s satirical poem throughout the capital at the first opportunity.