The shop assistant, whose body was in the marketplace but heart in the martial world, nodded. Seizing the moment when the stingy shopkeeper was busy flirting with a voluptuous woman, he snatched the cup of wine from the young swordsman’s hand, downed it in one gulp, and hastily returned it to this first-class guest of the tavern. With a knowing glance, he scampered off cheerfully.
For this waiter, thanks to that cup of wine, this day was yet another good one.
However, the waiter suddenly turned back and reminded, “Young Master Han, as per the old rule, only one jug of wine is allowed.”
The young swordsman, holding his cup in one hand and swaying slightly with the other, replied helplessly, “Got it. This time, I won’t trouble you to carry me back to the sect.”
Under Xu Baozao’s astonished gaze, the man who had always struck her as aloof and nearly emotionless picked up his wine jug and cup, walked over, and sat down at the young swordsman’s table without waiting for an invitation. “In the martial world, chance encounters are fate. Mind if I join you for a drink?”
The girl glanced down at her empty cup. Rarely in the mood for wine, she had no choice but to follow and make a fool of herself alongside them.
The young man blinked in surprise, then smiled warmly. “Not at all.”
Xu Fengnian poured a cup of osmanthus wine for himself and the girl before raising his head and saying softly, “I am Xu Qi, from Beiliang.”
The young man, who had placed his sword on the table, raised his cup in a toast and grinned knowingly. “I am Han Hengqu, a native of Yunquan County in the Dongyue region. I’ve trained in swordsmanship at our county’s Daxiatai since childhood and have never ventured beyond Dongyue. I truly admire your travels, Young Master Xu.”
Xu Fengnian feigned surprise. “Judging by your refined demeanor, I had mistaken you for a proud disciple of the Song Clan’s Sword Pool, the leading swordsmen of Dongyue.”
Han Hengqu shook his head. “I hardly deserve the word ‘proud.’ You flatter me, Brother Xu.”
Xu Baozao secretly curled her lips. *Here we go—brothers at first sight, mutual flattery, then lamenting not having met sooner, and finally, heroic camaraderie. Isn’t this the same old cliché of martial world bravado?*
Xu Fengnian frowned. “Daxiatai? Is there such a sect in the Central Plains? Forgive my ignorance, Brother Han. Could you enlighten me?”
Without waiting for Han Hengqu’s reply, Xu Fengnian downed his cup with practiced ease, displaying the seasoned manners of an old wanderer. “If I’ve offended, I’ll punish myself with this drink.”
Han Hengqu, seemingly unbothered by any slight to his sect, chuckled lightly. “Our sect’s reputation pales beside the Dongyue Sword Pool, so it’s no surprise you haven’t heard of it. If you’re ever interested and free, do visit. Daxiatai has few taboos—no rigid hierarchies. Emperors and generals are welcome, as are peddlers and laborers.”
Xu Fengnian nodded approvingly. “With such magnanimity, Daxiatai already surpasses many of the so-called top sects in the Central Plains.”
Han Hengqu’s eyes lit up, as if Xu Fengnian had spoken straight to his heart. He drank another cup with gusto. “In terms of lineage, sword skills, or the reach of our sword aura, Daxiatai dares not boast. But when it comes to the breadth of a sect’s spirit, we yield to none!”
Han Hengqu’s tolerance for alcohol was evidently poor. After just a few cups, his face flushed red, and his voice grew louder with drunken fervor. “Daxiatai was founded at the end of the Dafeng Dynasty. Through the chaos of Ganlu’s southern exodus, Hongjia’s northern flight, and even the Yonghui golden age, for four centuries, we’ve upheld our creed: in troubled times, we draw our three-foot swords to save the world, even if it means breaking blades and lives—saving even one is enough. In peaceful times, we retreat to hone our swords, adding an inch of aura to our scabbards where we can!”
Abruptly, Han Hengqu stopped himself and laughed self-deprecatingly. “I’ve had too much. Forgive my drunken ramblings, Brother Xu.”
Xu Fengnian picked up the jug—only half a cup remained. Han Hengqu turned and loudly ordered another jug of Yunquan’s finest osmanthus wine. Xu Baozao, resting her chin on the table, watched as Xu Fengnian poured, her eyes fixed on the rising liquid in her cup. The fragrant aroma made her view this chance-met companion in a slightly better light.
Though the world breeds a hundred kinds of people from the same rice, some truly click—whether through shared ideals or shared vices.
At this moment, Han Hengqu felt an instant kinship with this wandering scholar from Beiliang.
Though he had never left Dongyue, Han Hengqu was no greenhorn in the martial world. As Daxiatai’s chief disciple, trusted to oversee the sect in his master’s absence, he might misjudge a man’s depth, but he had confidence in spotting character.
Yet speaking too freely too soon was a martial world taboo. Even with his sect’s backing, inviting trouble was never wise. Thus, the slightly tipsy Han Hengqu soon set his cup aside. A jug held a pound of wine—easy to drink, but the osmanthus brew packed a punch. His limit was a meager seven or eight taels, and he usually left the last two or three for the waiter. Those very dregs had tripped him up in past sorrow-drowning binges. Since learning to drink three years prior, his sword skills had grown, but his tolerance hadn’t—a private regret.
Though abstaining from more wine, the food arrived, and martial folk never observed the scholar’s rule of silence at meals. So Han Hengqu chatted idly with the leisurely-drinking man. Both carefully skirted weighty matters of state, sticking to martial world anecdotes and romantic tales. To their surprise, the conversation flowed effortlessly, free of forced politeness. Initially wary—suspecting this stranger of buttering him up for ulterior motives—Han Hengqu found himself increasingly disarmed by the wine’s warmth and the rare joy of discussing topics beyond swordsmanship. Before he knew it, he had drained the remaining two or three taels in the jug.
That was his undoing.
Stripped of all restraint, Han Hengqu grew oddly solemn—unlike the typical drunkard who grows boisterous or climbs atop tables. He sat rigidly upright, as if a grand chancellor debating statecraft with the emperor, much to Xu Baozao’s silent amusement.
The two men spoke freely. The well-traveled Xu Qi recounted regional customs—Beiliang’s blizzards, Western Shu’s bamboo seas, Huishan’s cloud-piercing Queyue Tower. Han Hengqu confessed his eclectic hobbies—chess, gardening, paper-cutting, ink-making, porcelain-firing—all pursued with passion but no mastery. He spoke of longing for a carefree sword, a life of unfettered joy, and a heart unburdened by regrets.
He praised *The First Snow*, scorned by literary giants as mere sentimentalism, as the truest writing under heaven. He marveled at the Go master Fan Changhou’s bold plays, surpassing Xu in force but not in endurance…
Finally, drunk and melancholy, Han Hengqu murmured, “My sword isn’t fast enough, so I’m neither carefree nor content. That’s why I often crave wine—yet my tolerance is so poor, I dare not drink much.”
With a thud, the Daxiatai’s sword prodigy toppled forward, his head hitting the table. Soft snores followed—he was out cold.
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