Charles's throat suddenly felt a bit dry. He quickly steadied himself and said expressionlessly, "You'd better sit down, sir. Don't start playing tricks so early in the morning."

William Sullivan hadn't had time to get drunk yet today, so his remaining conscience hadn't been soaked into dregs. Smiling, he grabbed Charles's hand, used it for support to stand up, affectionately patted the boy on the back of the head, and stumbled into the kitchen.

He was actually getting ready to work—Master William doing something productive was a once-in-a-century event, as rare as an iron tree blooming.

Charles hurried after him, only to see his adoptive father swagger over, grab a handful of rice, and dump it all into the pot. Then he noisily scooped water to wash the rice, splashing everywhere, white waves flying. Next, he deigned to stick two fingers into the water, stirred it around, shook off the droplets, and announced, "Halfway done washing. James Sullivan, come take your turn."

Mr. Sullivan: "..."

William Sullivan grabbed the wine jug from the stove, tipped his head back, and took a swig—smooth and precise.

...Sometimes Charles suspected that even his so-called "blindness" was just an act.

Mr. Sullivan seemed to have given up, no longer struggling pointlessly. Muttering curses, he washed his hands clean with soapberry, ran into the kitchen, steamed some pastries, and started cleaning up the mess William had left behind.

Charles then took out the calligraphy he'd practiced that morning, showing each sheet to Mr. Sullivan. After James Sullivan finished reviewing and commenting, Charles stuffed the page into the stove to help start the fire.

"Your writing has really improved; you've been working hard lately," said Mr. Sullivan. "Looks like you're copying the 'Changting Letter' by Marquis Anding, Gu Yun?"

Charles: "Mm."

William, who had been idling nearby, suddenly turned his head at these words, a strange look flashing across his face.

Mr. Sullivan didn't look up. "Marquis Anding led troops at fifteen and made his name in a single battle. At seventeen, he was appointed commander and ordered to campaign west. Passing by the outskirts of Xiliang City, he saw ancient ruins and, moved by the enduring sights of a bygone dynasty, wrote the 'Changting Ode.' He meant to leave it at that, but his sycophants secretly preserved it and carved it on a stele. To be fair, Gu Yun's calligraphy was taught by the great contemporary scholar Mr. Mo Sen, and it does have its merits. But when he wrote the 'Changting Letter,' he was still young and had achieved success early, so the work is inevitably a bit immature and lacking in depth. Since you're practicing calligraphy, with so many ancient works to copy, why choose a modern person's writing?"

Charles rolled up the paper filled with his practice and stuffed it into the stove without hesitation. "I heard that the three great Xuan Iron Battalions—Xuan Eagle, Xuan Armor, and Xuan Cavalry—swept away the eighteen northern barbarian tribes under the old marquis, and later, under the young marquis, even the fierce bandits of the Western Regions bowed their heads. It's not that I like his calligraphy; I just want to know what the handwriting of the hand that commanded the three great Xuan Iron Battalions looks like."

Mr. Sullivan absentmindedly stirred the pot with his spoon, his gaze seeming to drift far away. After a long pause, he finally said slowly, "Marquis Anding's surname is Gu, given name Yun, courtesy name Zixi. He was the only son of the late emperor's eldest princess and the old marquis. Orphaned young, he was pitied by the current emperor and raised in the palace, specially granted the hereditary title. He was born to a life of wealth and leisure, but insisted on going to the Western Regions to eat sand. Whether he's a hero or not, I don't know, but I suspect he's not quite right in the head."

Mr. Sullivan wore a faded old long robe, the hem stained with grease from steel armor, and a wretched apron hung around his neck. The two brothers muddled through life together, with no woman in the house, each more unruly than the other. Who knows if that apron had ever been washed since it was brought home; its original color was long gone, and it looked utterly out of place on him.

Only his face remained sharply defined.

James Sullivan's nose was high and straight. When he wasn't smiling, his profile was almost chillingly cold. His eyelids trembled slightly, and he suddenly spoke: "After the old marquis passed, the Xuan Iron Battalion's achievements threatened the throne and drew the emperor's suspicion. On top of that, treacherous courtiers ran rampant in the court..."

The silent William suddenly interrupted him: "James Sullivan."

The two at the stove looked at him. William was staring at a tiny spiderweb on the doorframe.

William never showed his drinking on his face; the more he drank, the paler he became, all emotion hidden deep in his eyes, impossible to read.

He said quietly, "Don't talk nonsense."

The Shen brothers were usually completely informal with each other. The younger never respected the elder, and the elder spoiled the younger beyond reason. They bickered from morning till night, but their bond was strong.

Charles had never heard William speak in such a harsh tone.

Sensitive by nature and not understanding the situation, he frowned deeply.

James Sullivan's jaw tightened for a moment. Realizing Charles was watching him, he forced himself to rein in his emotions and smiled. "Consider it a slip of the tongue—though isn't slandering the court the perfect side dish for a meal? I was just making conversation."

Sensing the awkward atmosphere, Charles quickly changed the subject and asked, "So, in the ten years between the Northern Expedition and the Western Campaign, who was in charge of the Xuan Iron Battalion?"