Afterwards, the two planned to stroll around the town. Xu Fengnian invited Old Wei to join them, but the old man, having walked the martial world for most of his life and long since become a shrewd observer of human nature, glanced at the maid’s expression and tactfully declined the young master’s invitation.
Xu Baozao swiftly stepped over the threshold of the tavern and into the bustling street, like a fish leaping from the shore back into the river, radiating a vibrant energy.
Xu Fengnian followed silently behind her. Earlier, he had given her a hefty pouch of silver—more than enough to indulge in whatever food she fancied.
But he hadn’t expected her appetite to be so voracious once unleashed. She was practically a gluttonous *pixiu*—devouring Old Qiu’s crystal chestnut cakes, then craving Ma’s shop’s braised duck, detouring to Beishan Tower for shrimp stir-fry, and casually grabbing a stick of pear-flavored sugar candy from a roadside stall. Her little mouth never stopped moving.
The money pouch visibly deflated, yet the girl’s stomach showed no sign of filling. Even Xu Fengnian couldn’t help but wonder—where did all that food go?
Finally, Xu Baozao dragged him off to find Qingmei Fang, a shop famous for its chilled plum soup and homemade plum wine—two of Fulu Town’s nine specialties. Even the prestigious Dongyue Sword Pool often purchased their ancestral-brewed liquor to entertain honored guests. Located at the northern end of Fulu Town, off the main north-south axis, the shop was nestled in a maze of alleys as intricate as the waterways of Jiangnan.
Xu Baozao was as directionally challenged as Longhu Mountain’s White Lotus Sage, but fortunately, the man trailing behind her didn’t rush her. Hands clasped behind his head, he followed the green-robed “maid” through the streets, exuding the leisurely ease of a pampered noble scion.
Occasionally, when she glanced back, she’d see him brushing past a woman selling melon seeds or pausing at a street corner to watch two elderly men play chess.
This made the girl, who had already taken many wrong turns, instantly dismiss the tiny flicker of guilt she’d felt.
At last, as they rounded a corner, they heard the lively call of a young man and woman: *“The clink of copper bowls echoes through the streets—a bowl of chilled plum soup to beat the heat!”* Normally, a renowned century-old establishment like Qingmei Fang wouldn’t need street hawking, but it was a tradition passed down through generations—perhaps a reminder to stay humble.
The shop was surprisingly spacious, likely formed by merging four or five storefronts. Inside and out, there were forty or fifty tables, hinting at the bustling crowds it must draw in the sweltering summer. Though mid-autumn had passed, the plum soup was still served—now warm instead of chilled—while most customers came for the plum wine. Adults drank while their children sipped the sweet soup, ensuring everyone left happy.
Xu Baozao tugged Xu Fengnian’s sleeve and pointed—Song Tingquan, the Sword Pool’s young mistress, and the youth Ye Geng were already there, seated at a table with their plum soup. They sat opposite each other, as if deliberately avoiding suspicion, though their efforts only made their closeness more obvious.
The pair noticed the “master and maid” who looked nothing of the sort and simultaneously ducked their heads, sipping their soup as if afraid of being caught in an illicit rendezvous.
Little did they know that in the eyes of weathered men, youthful love was like sunlight piercing through fog—fleeting, golden, and impossible to grasp.
Qingmei Fang was packed, with only a few empty tables. Xu Baozao ordered two large bowls of chilled plum soup. The waiter, well accustomed to eccentric requests, didn’t bat an eye—even in winter, some hardy souls still craved the icy treat. Xu Fengnian pressed a hand to her head, and she blinked innocently. He smirked and reached to pinch her ear, but she dodged, hastily adding a jug of the cheapest plum wine to their order.
They settled at a table shared with a family of four—a young couple and their two children. The boy, around seven or eight, had a mischievous glint, while his four-year-old sister was quiet, her large eyes like black grapes on a porcelain plate.
The boy teased his sister until she suddenly slapped him across the face, leaving him stunned. The parents, unfazed, calmly soothed him while the mother offered Xu Fengnian and Xu Baozao an apologetic smile.
Xu Baozao was charmed by the little girl’s fierce spirit and dangled a stick of pear candy before her. The child glanced shyly at her mother, who smiled and said, “Remember to thank the sister.”
The father raised his wine bowl to Xu Fengnian, and the two men drank lightly, exchanging silent camaraderie.
There was an old saying in the martial world: *“The dangers of the martial world exist only within it.”* Ordinary folk, even if close to its edges, could live peacefully year after year. But once entangled, fortune and disaster became unpredictable.
After the Warring States period, those uninvolved in the martial world could generally live safely. But before and during that era, martial artists and wandering swordsmen often harmed innocents without remorse. For instance, the infamous rogue swordsman Cao Youfang once stormed an execution ground, slaughtering over two hundred officials and civilians to rescue a righteous man. Yet, for centuries, no one—from scholars to commoners—saw his actions as wrong.
It wasn’t until the rise of Legalist scholar Xun Ping, followed by the influence of the Butcher Xu Xiao and strategist Li Yishan, that this thousand-year-old trend was curbed.
Xu Baozao sipped her plum soup, warmth spreading through her. Even the usually insufferable Xu Fengnian seemed tolerable now.
Suddenly, a girl’s scream pierced the air, followed by a sharp slap and a young man’s rebuke. Then came the chilling unison of blades being drawn.
The family clutched their children. Xu Baozao turned to see Song Tingquan standing before a scholar-robed man, his cheek reddened by her slap. His earlier admiration had vanished, replaced by cold fury.
Two tall men flanked him, their plain black scabbards half-drawn. Two others remained seated—one amused, the other frowning. The latter wore a silk pouch embroidered with a brass carp and carried an unusually long sword.
The slapped man smiled darkly. “Young lady, I merely invited you to drink. If you refused, you could have said so. Why resort to violence?”
Song Tingquan, inexperienced in the martial world and spoiled by the Sword Pool, spat, “You shameless lecher! Where were your eyes wandering? And why did you try to put your filthy hands on me? I ought to gouge out your eyes and chop off your paws!”
The man chuckled. “You admit I did nothing truly improper. Yet you struck me. A scholar may be killed, but not humiliated. Normally, I wouldn’t stoop to your level, but—”
Ye Geng cut in, “Sir, my friend had an earlier altercation in the market and is still upset. She misunderstood your intentions—”
The man waved him off. “People are hard to judge, but actions have clear right and wrong. No need to defend her.”
Song Tingquan trembled with rage. “You’re vile!”
Xu Baozao murmured, “With that talent for twisting words, this ‘official’ must hold quite a high rank.”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “Though his methods are twisted, his words hold truth—people are hard to judge, but actions can be weighed.”
Xu Baozao scoffed. “Then why don’t you go share a drink with him? Birds of a feather!”
Xu Fengnian sipped his plum wine, offering no rebuttal.
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