Chapter 6: Temptation, Failure, and the Call to Action

As it turns out, I was overthinking it. The world didn’t change overnight just because I had memories from the future.

I tried to come up with some future policies for reform, but all were rejected. The council meetings felt more like high school debate club than the corridors of power.

And the one who rejected me wasn’t anyone else, but the Chief himself! It was like pitching a new app to a Silicon Valley investor who’d seen it all before.

I said I wanted to promote open admissions, expand education, and recruit talent widely. The kind of stuff that gets you a standing ovation on cable news.

The Chief refuted me: "Your Majesty’s intentions are good, but books and learning are monopolized by the big families. Even if you recruit officials, it just helps the families stuff their people into the council." He looked at me over his glasses, like a weary professor grading a freshman’s essay.

Hearing this, I thought of movable type printing. Maybe if we made books cheaper, the people could learn, too.

"Your Majesty’s idea is astonishing!" Worthy of being one of the Four Great Inventions—even the Chief was amazed—but before I could be proud, the Chief said: "Perhaps in the future, but not suitable for the current Dalton family."

"Your Majesty’s idea isn’t for books, but for silk and paper."

"But who can actually afford silk and paper, if not the officials and big families?"

"Even if Your Majesty wants to promote it among the people, would the families allow it? Your Majesty is digging up their roots."

"The family is already exhausted. Provoking the families is unwise."

The Chief pointed and gestured, saying "I am fearful" as he took away my notebook. The discussion closed, just like that.

I can understand. The Daltons have lost Central City, failed in the campaign against the Boyers, the founding patriarch has died—no wonder it’s chaotic. No one wanted to rock the boat any more than it already was.

It just means more worries for the Chief. After all, "all state affairs, great or small, are decided by Grant." I could see the toll it took on him, the way his shoulders sagged at the end of each day.

Since civil reforms won’t work, I thought of military reforms. But, never mind firearms and cannons, I couldn’t even figure out gunpowder! My high school chemistry grades mocked me from the past.

When I brought up "gunpowder" to the Chief, the look he gave me was like he was looking at a 440-pound idiot. He even snorted, barely holding back a laugh.

Why did I study literature instead of science? The thought made me want to bang my head against the council table.

Hot weapons won’t work, and I know nothing about cold weapons either. Civil War swords or the Smith family sabers, which are famous in the history of cold weapons—I could only brag about them to the Chief. As for how to make them, I had no idea.

Military reform naturally failed. Economic reform was even more impossible. Wasn’t that so-called time-traveler William Mann overthrown because he messed with land, causing the Green Mountain Uprising, and was finally taught a lesson by the protagonist Luke Stone with a meteor?

Now I know why everyone says reform is hard, and I understand the hardships of Hamilton and Clay. Every day was a battle, every new idea shot down before it could take flight.

Almost every time I tried to do something, before I could finish a sentence, the Chief always had some argument to refute me. In the end, I could only bury myself in studying statecraft. I spent nights poring over dusty ledgers, trying to memorize tax codes and trade laws, hoping some secret would reveal itself.

Every day: morning council, meetings, sometimes reading reports while listening to my chief advisor lecture, then resting—just like clocking in. The routines of government, the grind of leadership, started to wear me down.

I felt like a high schooler pitching TikTok to a bunch of rotary phone owners.

Until one day, an attendant brought a rooster and asked me:

"Your Majesty, you’ve been studying too hard lately, why not take a break? I’ve found a fine fighting cock."

"Cockfighting? Sure, I’ve never tried it before." It felt like a scene straight out of an old Southern novel—strange, yet oddly comforting.

"Your Majesty, have you studied yourself silly? Didn’t you used to love this most?" The attendant grinned, as if remembering a favorite uncle’s old habit.

...

August 4th,

Hearing that someone had rebelled again, I thought, I must put in more effort, so I decided to handle this batch of reports myself. The paperwork stacked up like snowdrifts in Buffalo.

August 13th,

Cockfighting. The barn was thick with the smell of hay and sweat, men shouting over the clatter of beer bottles, the kind of rowdy you only get at county fairs or Friday night football. The shouts, the feathers, the flash of beaks in the sunlight. For a moment, it felt like all my troubles could be drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

August 14th,

Cockfighting. Again. My hands still smelled of feathers and dust, my head buzzing with excitement and shame.

August 16th,

Andy Dalton, oh Andy Dalton! How can you be so useless! All your grand ambitions and fiery heart have been forgotten! I pressed my palms to the cool bathroom sink, wondering if I’d always be the guy who cracked under pressure. Wasn’t this supposed to be my redemption arc?

The late patriarch said: "Never do evil, no matter how small" ...I can’t go on like this! The words echoed in my mind, a warning from beyond the grave.

August 21st,

Cockfighting. The temptation was everywhere, calling me back, promising an escape from responsibility.

...

"Report—Your Majesty, the nobles of South County, Wayne King of Westfield, Greg Dean, and the governor of Ridgefield, Ben Brooks, have joined forces in rebellion!"

"Who?" I couldn’t recall these three names for a moment, until I saw the attendant circle their locations on the map. My stomach dropped, the way it always did before a big exam.

Damn! Aren’t these the three nobodies who incited Mark Howard to rebel?

No, no, if this goes on, I’ll really become just like the real Andy! The realization stung. Was I doomed to repeat history, no matter what I tried?

Is this the leisurely life of the privileged... In the end, nothing can defeat me except temptation. My ambitions buried under a pile of chicken feathers and wasted afternoons.

"Someone, pass my order: slaughter all the chickens in the coop. From now on, anyone who mentions cockfighting or games will be docked pay and put on probation!"

I glared at the attendant, and after issuing the order, hurriedly summoned all officials to the main hall for discussion. My voice was sharper than I intended, but I couldn’t help it.

The war faction and the appeasement faction were arguing fiercely. I ignored them and focused on organizing my thoughts. The noise faded into the background as I stared down at my notes, searching for answers.

Looking again at the Chief, he was still calm, standing out from the other officials. In a blink, he met my gaze. His eyes were steady, unyielding—the eyes of someone who’d seen it all, yet still believed in tomorrow.

Chief Grant Campbell looked calm, but there was a depth in his eyes I couldn’t fathom.

The council chamber buzzed with doubt, but Grant’s eyes locked on mine—steady, expectant. For the first time, I wondered if I could really change the ending, or if history would swallow me whole.