Chapter Ninety-Eight: Drinking Together

“This?” The drunken man’s heart skipped a beat as the other suddenly guessed correctly. In truth, it was only his own overthinking—he had convinced himself that he had done something unworthy of a friend. Yet, from another’s perspective, there was nothing to feel guilty about at all. Soon enough, the drunken man regained his composure; his gaze flickered briefly before a smile spread across his face. He spoke with a tone of gentle explanation, “You call me a drunken fool, but it seems Brother Lao is no different. You could instantly tell this wine came from the Central Plains. Indeed, today a friend from the Central Plains brought me this jar. You are my best friend here in the northern frontier, so such a fine gift must be shared with you. That is why I came so late, hoping I wouldn’t disturb you.”

Though it sounded like an explanation, the drunken man’s words were somewhat veiled, and even his tone softened into politeness. Brother Lao, however, paid no mind to these unusual gestures. With a casual flick, he placed the wine jar on the wooden table. Perhaps it was the result of the room’s long exposure to heat, but the table’s surface appeared noticeably dry and cracked, a subtle contrast to the two large earthenware bowls beside it. These rough, rustic vessels seemed fitting for the kind of rugged folk who worked in iron forging, living by the principle of hearty meat and large bowls of wine—far from the refined tastes of a place like the Heavenly Fragrance Pavilion.

The jar was gently tilted, pouring two full bowls of wine. Only then did Brother Lao speak, “There’s no need for all this fuss between us. As long as there’s wine, it makes no difference if you came late by an hour or two. I wouldn’t mind. But every time it’s you bringing the wine, and I’ve never returned the favor. Once this deal is done, I’ll make sure to invite you properly, so you can drink your fill in one go. Come, brothers, let’s have a drink first!”

He lifted the bowl with a look of eagerness, as if about to gulp it down in one fierce swig. Naturally, this was quite understandable. To Brother Lao, the wine seemed mild enough; even if he drained the entire bowl, it would be as if he hadn’t drunk anything at all. But the drunken man knew better. If he drank it the usual way—bowl after bowl—by the time he reached the second, he would surely be overwhelmed by the heat. Swiftly, he reached out and gripped Brother Lao’s hand holding the bowl, stopping him with a hurried warning, “Brother, this wine may taste light, but that’s not how you drink it. Come, follow me; drink fully, and I promise you’ll call it excellent! If you rush, you’ll lose the essence of this Four Seasons Wine!”

Brother Lao looked at him puzzled, wondering why his friend was so hesitant. After all, the wine was here now—why not drink? Still, he sensed there must be a reason, especially when the words “Four Seasons Wine” were spoken. Suddenly, he relaxed, though a trace of disbelief lingered in his eyes as he stared at the bowl. “You say this is Four Seasons Wine? Drunken Fool, you’re not joking, are you? If it truly is that legendary vintage, then the friend who brought it to you must be no ordinary person.”

“You know this wine?” The drunken man sounded incredulous. He himself was obsessed with drinking and had no idea such a thing existed. How could a blacksmith like Brother Lao know about it? Perhaps he was more than just a blacksmith. Could it be that the person Autumn Thirteen sought was really him? Well, these thoughts remained unspoken, buried in the heart. Prompted by the question, Brother Lao spoke with a hint of pride, “Of course I know. A hundred years ago in the Central Plains, there was the Nongjing Manor. Its people held no grand titles, nor did they possess unmatched martial skills, but across the martial world, the manor was deeply respected—because of their wine. Among martial folk, magnanimity is chief, and wine is essential. The wine brewed by Nongjing Manor was a rare treasure, and the Four Seasons Wine was the very essence of their craft—mysterious and exquisite. Yet, for reasons unknown, this manor, which had inherited its tradition for decades, vanished overnight from the martial world over twenty years ago, never to be seen again. The Four Seasons Wine became a legend. I had thought it mere myth, never imagining it truly existed. Your friend who brought it must be extraordinary indeed, and their gift to you speaks of a bond between you both as close as brothers.”

Pausing there, Brother Lao slowly brought the bowl to his lips and took a gentle sip. The first taste was nothing extraordinary beyond its clear, sweet aroma, yet even so, he savored it deeply. After hard labor, one’s throat is parched, and to taste such fine wine was like rain after a drought—a blessing to body and soul. The drunken man, however, was less moved. His friend was likely just speaking to impress, and he smiled awkwardly, raising the bowl to his lips and taking a light sip. The fragrance lingered between his teeth and lips. After a long moment, as if steeling himself, he said, “Maybe so. I’ve never asked about your past, but you seem indifferent to all things. Tonight, though, perhaps because I’m a bit drunk, I’ll ask at random. If you don’t want to answer, I won’t press. You’re from the Central Plains—do you have any friends or family there?”

“That’s not hard to answer. No one comes into this world alone, but I have no parents—or rather, I never met them. As for family or friends, maybe I had some before, but now they’re almost all forgotten. I can’t even recall their faces or temperaments.” Though he said it lightly, Brother Lao’s voice and expression were heavy with sorrow. Such memories were far from pleasant. Toward the end, a faint, bitter smile crossed his cheek, as if mocking himself. Stirred by emotion, he lifted the bowl and drank deeply.

The heat rising was intense. The drunken man had divided one cup into four sips, experiencing something like a journey through the four seasons. Now, Brother Lao’s single gulp matched that volume, and the summer’s scorching blaze intensified. Sweat poured freely from his brow, as if his body was about to burst. Even his veins bulged outward—no comfortable sensation at all. His spiritual energy surged wildly, as if trying to expel this strange heat, but it was no easy task. The feeling mirrored the turmoil in his heart.

“Maybe you’re better off,” Brother Lao continued. “I keep trying to forget, but never truly do. Only when drunk can I briefly escape, but once sober, the memories return sharper, like a knife stabbing deep into my heart—painful, fierce. Each time I drink more, the knife sinks deeper. Eventually, I couldn’t get drunk at all—that torment of wanting to fall under but unable to, drove me mad. That’s how I earned this name, the Mad Drunk!” His words struck a chord with the drunken man, who, moved, took a deep swallow himself—though without the same intensity of heat.

Neither spoke further. Every wine lover in the martial world carried a sorrowful tale; this was something both men understood well. At this moment, one unwilling to admit it, the other resigned to it, their silence was not unpleasant. At least they could use the physical sensation to mask the awkwardness within. They both knew that if they drank another sip, the refreshing chill of autumn would rush in, yet strangely, neither wished to lose this tormenting heat.

As the once-raging fire in the hearth began to flicker and dim, the drunken man slowly lifted his bowed head and softly asked, “In the Central Plains, is there someone you cannot let go of? A matter unresolved? Or perhaps an enemy you cannot bear to share the world with? Is that why you journeyed thousands of miles to hide away in a remote border town like Shuozhou?”