Chapter 43: Knocking Down Each One in Turn

Qian Ye raised his cup again, and it was obvious from his gaze that he was no longer himself.

“Hah!” Wei Potian jeered, triumphant. “Qian Ye, your day has finally arrived! You once got me so drunk I couldn’t stand — well today I’ll show you; I, Wei Potian, ain’t the same weakling as before!”

Wei gloated mercilessly while Zhao Yuying and Song Zining exchanged peculiar expressions. “What an idiot,” thought Song Zining, while Zhao came to realize in that moment that Wei was no prodigious expert himself when it came to liquor.

By the third round, Qian Ye’s balance wavered precariously. At any moment he might fall into oblivion. He grew restless, excited almost—laughing too loud while gesturing widely and speaking in exaggerated tones—the signs of a man thoroughly drunk.

That sparked Zhao Yuying’s interest. She snatched the drink to pour Qian Ye three rapid glasses straight, determined to see him under the table. The three went down hard and swiftly—but instead of victory, a hazy dizziness settled over Zhao herself. As for Qian Ye though visibly shaken, still he didn’t fall.

She thought this reasonable. After all, in her eyes battle strength determined strength in drink—how could a fighter as powerful as this succumb so easily?

No sooner had she resolved to push on with another flurry when from nowhere, Song Zining interrupted and invited her to another round of drinks and a heart-to-heart discussion on a particular leaf.

Would Zhao, never intimidated by Song even once, fall away so easily? She, therefore, finished three more drinks effortlessly while beginning to debate past grudges with Song. Yet arguments such as this are often futile; both parties believed themselves justified in their actions. Naturally, after barely exchanging a few sentences they turned back again to drink—to settle the disputes on spirit’s stage.

With that, open four-way battle erupted while Qian Ye already wavered under pressure of inebriation.

As glasses clinked again across tables, suddenly Wei grabbed Song’s collar furiously yelling. “Knew all along your girlish tricks were why those women hound me at every drinking session! I won’t forget this!”

Clunk! Song slammed a glass before Wei. His cold laugh followed as steel: “Even if my plan put you there, so what? Don’t whine like woman over it—three to the chest! No chatter!”

Then like a vengeful deity from the heavens, Yuyoung leaned into Song’s view space whispering icily. “Oh? And what is it you’ve got against women, Song Zining?”

The noble didn’t so much as raise eyebrow—launching one crystal tumbler straight toward her. “Apologies, mere word play—but will three cups suffice to dissolve such grievance?”

With a confident grin—”You’re on!”

The chaos transformed from duel to tripartite contest while beside it swayed Qian Ye, the candle nearly spent.

None exactly recall the time elapsed or the number of spirits consumed next. To Qian Ye, recollections blurred into faint whispers of impossibly drunk memories, as the memory in those moments was only of staggering daze.

At some point, amid hazy air and red faces Wei tugged hard upon his opponent whispering between thick tongue knots “While hells I admit liking you even a scantly—still can concede though…you’re, indeed a bit…better.”

SMAC! Came the swat Song unleashed against hand’s crude advance—tempered growl trailing in disgust. “Touch me again, I dare ya—better? That’s an insult to talent! Listen close, the very fan in my hand’s worth more than twenty girls—yea. Twenty!”

Calm and composed was Master Song, movements poised with dignity—except that outstretched hand betrayed his own tip-slicked reflexes pointing right at Yuying.

Around them stood but one stunning beauty. So Song’s erring pointer had struck true.

Zhao’s eye widened in fury at the audacity.

Seated beside their antics sat Qian Ye in silence—recognizing, better perhaps even than Song himself, Song indeed swam deep under alcohol’s spell despite appearance composed, for his vacant look revealed his inner haze.

As it were, Song inspected his female opponent once more, eventually nodding:

“Yes… indeed quite a gem, though I might revise the estimate of worth—I’d rather exchange my beautiful fan, just, for perhaps no more than eight such fair young lasses. Ehhh—Eight!”

A bit soothed at Song’s apparent flattery, Zhao softened—until second syllable passed lips. Her eyes then blackened as nightingale silenced with thunderclouded face.

While all watched in silence beside, Qian Ye mused to himself… Zining will certainly pay for this.

So Zhao picked up one fresh drink and sipped gently—then parted plump lips as her lips curled into predatory delight—an act seemingly of affection for the man before her.

Song straightened like martyr to doom—chest puff, head rise prepared sacrifice in face.

Next breath Wei’s jaw hung lower than his wine cup, all red flushed away to ashen horror beneath skin as his knuckled hands crushed bone with tension.

A storm in mortal steps Zhao stormed across. No sooner said than done—an unstoppable tide of force dragged Song Zining towards self, lips inches from meeting. Breath met breath in final approach toward sin or salvation.

Still unmoving sat the composed figure of Qian Ye watching, eyes steady and unflinching. Zining was about to see fate itself crash down like meteor on the drunkard!

Sure enough, instead Zhao’s hand flipped into grasp like tiger pouncing at rabbit’s neck. With sheer force Song’s very posture crumbled like paper, shoved forward onto the wooden banquet table.

Endowed with strength to match Qian Ye, Song had barely the reflex to flinch from her wrath before her hand squeezed. His mouth unhinged of its own accord with the vice grip she’d clasp, into which she poured cup after full and merciless cup of fiery drink. Six more full, brutal, merciless flasks of flame—before finally releasing the tortured man to cough up his soul.

Falling backwards daze and drowning Song hacked with pained coughs.

That fire-wine, unrelentlessly chucked into mouth, poured unceremoniously down throat—could break anyone. Strength mattered little.

She laughed with cruel joy while patting his back in mock concern: “Little sparrows always fall easy! How many of you soft little lads will I be dealing out tonight?”

In triumph she squeezed his fair boy-flesh with a smirked taunt on lips:

“Aww…so plump, so tender…but too tender, too fair still. Try back after growing thick cheeks; maybe you won enough grit to face me then, pretty birdie!”

Watching the spectacle unfold, Wei bellowing cheer from across the dining floor, slaming his palm on the table with pride in this beautiful demon queen of theirs who so soundly punished foolish noblemen.

Song’s face boiled crimson as waves of drink surged through—each second another tidal surge to his skull. He swayed as fury fought his rising drunkenness—but his grip slipped further under its sway, until with one sudden tilt the final blow hit like breaking thunder.

Straight he fell backwards—collapsed to land with loud crash beneath oak dining slab.

And in this drunken war, Wei’s enemy Song collapsed first—relief rushed forth to free his breath as he choked and contained it all night. Within instant, Wei too collapsed into deep snore beside Song.

Zhao surveyed victorious around. All that remained now… was Qian Ye—waving as unsteadily as from the start.

She’d mean to smirk triumphantly. But then the realization struck. Since the very first moment that dinner party started, Qian Ye looked like he’d collapse next—yet still hadn’t?

Zhao’s challenge senses flaring like candle into dark, filled up fresh another two large drinks, passed one to drunk warrior Qian. She took an adjacent cushion with natural instinct reaching out to gently, too affectionally clasp his shoulder as would seducing devil herself.

When with effort he swiveled away, evasive instinct, she frowned in genuine frustration: “What’s your issue, Qian Ye, really? Do none of this phase you?”

“You forget? I cleaned every last square inch of that little six-years-young body of yours after baths! Haha, remember how Xiaosi tried to hold you like cradled doll even with you just year younger? Slipped and crashed down right hard together onto floorboards. Oh the chaos!”

Still swaying but suddenly more lucid—her statement pierced like arrow through fog—his face twitched at final half of old stories. His heart thumping between pain and bitterness.

Silent seconds slipped past in reverie until Yuying interrupted with loud thump upon his shoulders.

“No rambling from you! Drink!”

Crestfallen in resignation, Qian Ye forced the memories down. They matched each glass one another as drinking war recommenced.

As they drank his form still swayed uncertain. When suddenly, without so much as warning—THUD! Just as Zhao fell like brick.

Seated still for moments in hush silence, finally, Qianeye registered the familiar scenario. Alone again—for he had faced such conclusion too often before tonight. Every night when serious competitions arose, they vanished beneath the wine… leaving him standing as he did when crossing black oceans once—alone still.

Then Qian Ye suddenly recalled: the initial call, why had they come together at all? The Western Campaign.

That bold gamble where triumph opened new horizons and expansion unimaginable; failure? That loss could shackle years of progress, crippling all forward advances with one blow.

He scanned the chamber now, the people—those supposed to plan this with him—all collapsed drunken pigs beneath his gaze.

Not a single stir to their snoring chorus.

But rousing them would not come so simply. He had other methods… but to deploy them?

It required risks not lightly borne… For if he unleashed true measures with all these three? By lightbreak tomorrow… he might not leave the battlefield living at all—not unless he sprouted ten new Primordial Wings beyond what was possible.

With head gently rubbing temples Qian Ye mused, how could something as simple as a feast meant to discuss strategies, have transformed so swiftly into a drinking competition?

These warriors before him—all commanding leaders who held the fate of many upon their arms—Wei Potian and Song Zining had long mastered their respective theatres and Zhao was famed among even armies for her prowess… Yet thrown together… all that was reduced to petty squabble while true causes crumbled.

Qian Ye’s thoughts steeled; sudden decision bloomed fiery in him.

“Three evenings from now, we strike west! So it stands.”

Silence—other than snoring that is.

Dawn was near. The world outside hushed beneath the sky, it neared past midnight while his loyal retainers already turned in for peaceful nights, servants retreating to quarters early. In fact—the main compound of Anhuo’s base required crossing the training ground to access; and inside his Command Wing of the佣兵团, barely but two available guest quarters for guests to rest within the same quarter.

Glancing over slumped forms at feet he thought… best take action himself.

Yuying deserved a room. She’d want it too, if she knew—so after lifting the girl and softly placing her upon mattress Qian Ye considered briefly how this was more out of survival caution; lest any unknowing fool sleep beside and unknowably disturb.

As for Song and Wei? Thrown unceremoniously over arms one by one, then unglamorously shared a bed and a room. What madness would follow tomorrow upon awakening—that, however entertaining the prospect, concerned Qian Ye the least.

And the following sunrise?

The impossible dawned in serenity.

Everyone stirred early without hesitation or protest; sharing a casual meal.

Song spoke with charm of the refined art of tea while Wei debated hunting tales—both the epitome of grace expected of noble blood. And surprisingly of all, Yuying herself—sophistication itself. Entire morning passed—without a single ‘I’ grunted harshly as she’d done for years—each phrase polished from sharpness.

Qian Ye found the calm surreal.

But if *he* found breakfast peculiar—the rest of the table’s eyes, however subtly fixed on him—the feeling unmistakably more intense.

Yet Qian Ye simply stated his intention to the campaign’s plan.

Not a word rose against it, even of curiosity. All nodded—breakfast closed out in odd, pleasant silence.

No mention was whispered of prior nights drinking inferno.

Before departing the mess tent魏破天 sought Zhao, feign politeness while in fact, driven by curiosity and dread from breakfast: “What was the name of the hand-cannon you deployed?”

“A seven grade hand cannon possessing reach and damage unmatched cannot be a common weapon…”

To which Zhao smirked proudly before spitting the name into air like a war cry:

“Kai-shan. Mountain Opener!”

At that exact sound… Wei immediately cursed his own tongue—and knew he’d offered Song another endless string to pluck laughter with.

Post-breakfast, strategy planning was in session.

The route ran westward—beyond river darkness—plains to cross four feudal vassal territories, with dozens scattered hamlets dotting path between strongholds along the dark road.

Had Zining drafted a grand war-plan it would have unfolded layers—blitz assault here, hidden advance there; envelopments and diversions danced like choreographed war opera where even ‘Besiege Wei—Rescue Zhao’ maneuvered would rank as routine.

Yet Qainye made no grand designs:

One by one, strike as storms, till all fall.