Xu Baozao stared dumbfounded, then turned to ask, “Did you get him drunk to rob his money or take advantage of him?”
Xu Fengnian sighed in exasperation, “How was I supposed to know he’d get drunk on osmanthus wine?”
Xu Baozao frowned. “What now? Just leave him here?”
Xu Fengnian hesitated for a moment before calling over the wary waiter to settle the bill, including Han Hengqu’s tab as well. The waiter, perhaps accustomed to dealing with all sorts of patrons, was quick to read the situation and didn’t peg Xu Fengnian as a troublemaker. When he heard that the guest happened to be heading toward Daxiatai for sightseeing, he readily entrusted Han Hengqu to Xu Fengnian’s care.
After all, the young waiter couldn’t imagine anyone in the Dongyue region foolish enough to pick a fight with Daxiatai, where Han Hengqu hailed from.
Perhaps only Li Yibai, the young sect master of Dongyue Sword Pool, had the guts and skill for such a thing—but would he even bother?
Xu Fengnian stood up, first reattaching the sword to Han Hengqu’s back before hoisting the now-drunken, rambling fool onto his shoulders. Following the waiter’s directions, he left the tavern and headed toward Daxiatai.
Xu Baozao was utterly baffled. Under the autumn sun and amid the crisp breeze, she watched as he carried a man he’d just met, his expression solemn as he trudged slowly toward the mountains.
Along the way, Han Hengqu began acting out in his drunken stupor—struggling to break free, boasting about showing off his swordsmanship as a “landbound sword immortal,” and lamenting that the drinking session hadn’t been satisfying enough, claiming he could still down three or four more jugs.
Xu Fengnian never once showed a hint of impatience.
Finally, Xu Baozao couldn’t hold back any longer. “Xu, do you actually know him, but he just doesn’t recognize you?”
Xu Fengnian nodded. “Pretty much.”
Xu Baozao pressed further, “Family friends?”
Xu Fengnian thought for a moment. “Only half right.”
Xu Baozao huffed in frustration. “Can you stop speaking in half-truths every damn time?!”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “It’s nothing scandalous. I suppose I can indulge you with the story.”
Xu Baozao snapped, “Then spit it out already!”
Xu Fengnian grinned. “Oh? Let me hold it in a little longer.”
Xu Baozao’s face flushed crimson as she fumed, “You bastard!”
Xu Fengnian lifted his gaze to the sun overhead and spoke slowly. “You’re young, so you might not know much about the Spring and Autumn Wars. Back then, fourteen swordsmen from Daxiatai joined the army and marched to battle. Within just two years, twelve of them died—seven on the battlefield, and the other five inside and outside a certain general’s tent.”
Xu Baozao was utterly lost.
Then the man added something even more cryptic. “That’s why my master often lamented that without those fourteen heroes of Daxiatai, there would’ve been no Northern Liang later on.”
Xu Baozao fell into deep thought. Though Xu Fengnian often mocked her as a “walking library,” she now scoured her memory for any traces of this story in official Liyang histories or unofficial folk records.
Xu Fengnian continued, “Of the two who returned to the sect, one died in an internal power struggle—tainted by scandal, he lost the sect leadership and passed away young. The other, disheartened and embittered, supposedly stagnated in swordsmanship, eventually becoming a drunk who could barely hold a sword steady. Both of them were Han Hengqu’s martial uncles.”
He added, “So, in a way, Han Hengqu and I are half-enemies.”
Xu Baozao frowned. “Then why did you drink with him so happily?”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “Every grievance has its source. I can’t just beat him up out of nowhere, much less kill him for revenge. So, getting him drunk was the next best thing.”
Xu Baozao’s expression darkened beneath her plain disguise, her mood heavy.
Though he spoke lightly of the past, she doubted he truly held no resentment.
She asked cautiously, “You’re not planning to go on a rampage at Daxiatai, are you?”
Xu Fengnian shot her an exasperated look. “Do I really seem like some bloodthirsty demon to you?”
She scrutinized him from head to toe. “No. But you are.”
Xu Fengnian suddenly smirked. “Are you trying to provoke me because you’ve fallen for Han Hengqu at first sight? Worried I’ll harm your beloved?”
Xu Baozao abruptly halted, one hand behind her back, the other raised with two fingers extended in a dignified stance. She whispered solemnly, “Sword, come!”
Xu Fengnian turned to stare at her as if she were an idiot.
In the end, the self-proclaimed “landbound sword immortal” was the first to break character. She lowered her arm and sighed. “Seems today’s not the day to summon a sword. I’ll spare your head for now!”
Xu Fengnian narrowed his eyes, gazing up at the sky once more, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he murmured, “Oh? Is that so?”
Though Daxiatai’s foundation wasn’t as deep as Dongyue Sword Pool’s, that didn’t mean it was some pushover in the Dongyue martial world. It was like comparing a vice-minister to a minister in the imperial court—still a force to be reckoned with.
Yet even the mightiest clans had their share of pitiable figures, the laughingstocks of the sect. With nearly two hundred inner disciples and hundreds more outer disciples, servants, and dependents, Daxiatai was no exception. Among its many jokes, the most infamous was Old Fu—a man in his sixties, alone in the world. Rumor had it he’d once been an inner disciple, but about thirty years ago, he was expelled for some unknown offense. Fortunately, the inner sect’s lawkeeper took pity and let him stay in the outer mountains as a sweeper, tending to the stone paths twice daily.
And so he had, for decades. Many outer disciples who’d joined in their youth now held power in the inner sect, yet none ever lifted a finger to help Old Fu. His monthly earnings barely covered basic sustenance, leaving him just enough to buy fifteen or sixteen cheap jugs of osmanthus wine—one every two days. Each sip brought him simple joy.
Every dawn and dusk, the sect’s members would see the red-nosed old drunk cradling his battered broom, tilting his jug with practiced restraint—never more than half a pound a day.
Outer disciples found Old Fu ridiculous, though if pressed, they couldn’t quite say why. Just an ordinary, childless old man who’d once practiced swordsmanship and achieved nothing. Funny, but not *that* funny.
Yet somehow, over the years, a strange tradition had taken root: every new disciple had to “initiate” themselves by tormenting Old Fu in some way—swapping his mild wine for throat-scorching liquor, dumping leaves on freshly swept paths, or even hiring a prostitute to knock on his ramshackle door at midnight.
Some pranks were harmless, but others—like the hotheaded youths who punched him square in the chest—left him wheezing for days. It was a miracle the old drunk’s body, hardened in his youth, could endure it all.
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