Outside the gates of Huguo Temple, along the edge of the open space to the right, no fewer than twenty large tung-oil umbrellas had been set up. A dozen or so pretty young maids with their hair in double buns were fanning, boiling water, kneading legs, and feeding snacks.

Cao De and Cao Cheng, plump and seemingly limbless like fattened pigs, were leading a group of dissolute friends in raucous mischief.

The young wastrels wouldn’t dare harass passersby directly, but from behind a table laid out with no fewer than twenty kinds of food, they made a great racket of vulgar noise, disturbing this supposedly pure and sacred Buddhist ground.

Whenever a pilgrim showed the slightest embarrassment, they would point and roar with laughter. Whenever they spotted an attractive woman, they’d bang the table and shamelessly hurl crude remarks and harassment at her.

The wastrels were in the middle of their fun when suddenly a troop of soldiers in palace guard armor came rushing in from the side and surrounded them.

Cao De and Cao Cheng were startled at first, but once they recognized the newcomers as palace guards, they flew into a rage—because while being reported to the Shuntian Prefecture back in the capital usually meant a beating and lesson, these palace guards were different; to them, the inner palace guards were essentially their own sister’s household servants.

Cao Cheng leapt up at once, climbed onto a stool, planted one foot on the table, and raised his palm to slap the nearest guard—only to find, to his shock, that the guard actually dared to dodge?

How dare he dodge?

Cao Cheng climbed higher onto the table and opened his mouth to curse in the newly learned Yanjing slang he’d picked up, but only got out half the curse: “You shameless little—”

He then jumped down from the table, wishing he could crawl straight under it.

The guards parted to either side, revealing Zheng Aman, his face full of loathing as if looking at something filthy.

In an instant, the once lively bunch all stood at attention, lining up one after another, every one of them suddenly meek and well-behaved.

Zheng Aman wasn’t even angry—it wasn’t as if they’d insulted his own family. He simply walked up to Cao De and asked, “Where’s your father?”

Cao De jumped in fright, looked up, and stammered, “Reporting to Young Lord, my father’s been suffering from headaches these past few days, he’s resting at home.”

Zheng Aman nodded. “Didn’t he go to the palace to request the Ru Sheng Powder?”

Cao De replied, “Reporting to Young Lord, yes, he did—came back and used it. Slept well last night, but this morning when we left, Father hadn’t gotten up yet!”

Zheng Aman hummed in acknowledgment, glanced around, and asked, “From the Cao family—who’s supposed to be attending you all today?”

At once, several people over there began collapsing to their knees.

Quite honest of them, really—no need to even call out names, they came forward themselves.

Without being told, the guards went and dragged each one over, forcing them to kneel before Zheng Aman.

Zheng Aman didn’t even look at them, just asked Cao De, “Just these?”

Cao De and Cao Cheng glanced around, swallowed, and nodded together.

One of the bolder servants blurted out, “Young Master! Help! Mercy! …Young Lord, mercy…”

Cao De and the others wilted, not daring to say a single word in their defense, just trembling.

Zheng Aman pursed his lips, sounding rather annoyed. “What nonsense are you spouting? Talking rubbish on holy ground, take them all far away… Discipline them and send them back to the Cao household. Look what kind of servants they employ—not one of them thought to talk sense into their masters, instead scheming to bring them out here to fool around. If they’d had any sense, they’d have gone home to report it. What a family of fools…”

And with that, the servants were efficiently gagged and dragged off.

One might think all the famous young masters of the capital were equals, but even among them there were ranks.

These fellows, now all married with children, the eldest a full decade older than Zheng Aman, each holding some nominal fifth or sixth-rank post—yet here in Yanjing, they only counted as the lowest tier of young masters.

Not to mention Great Liang, even in the former dynasty’s capital, young masters were ranked by tiers.

The first tier: families with deep foundations, sons with genuine talent who also worked hard—these needed only the slightest push to have limitless prospects, each a promising seedling for high office in the Six Ministries.

The second tier: families with deep foundations, sons without much talent but who understood their place and were willing to put in effort. After coming of age, they’d be arranged into a few years at the Secretariat, getting familiar faces before the Emperor. The whole court of elder officials would come to see them as “our own family’s children,” and eventually they’d draw a comfortable stipend and begin indulging themselves at leisure—growing flowers, keeping gardens at home, and eventually becoming recognized men of letters through sheer idle repetition.

The third tier: families with deep foundations, sons without talent and unwilling to endure hardship, but skillful at reading the room, sweet-tongued and quick on their feet, very good at handling affairs, and careful never to offend anyone. Once of age, they’d spend some silver to buy a nominal title through connections, and from then on, riding a reputation for being righteous and loyal, they’d befriend everyone real in every office within the capital’s four gates—there was no one they didn’t know, no door they couldn’t enter. Though they held no real office, they had dignity and considerable influence—provincial officials coming to the capital to pay tribute would send them handsome gifts too, just to secure peace through the four seasons. If anyone mentioned a name and these men said “I know him,” that carried real weight.

The fourth tier: families with deep foundations but in decline, sons who worked hard despite having only modest cleverness. If their examination results didn’t disgrace the family name, and they made friends people couldn’t help but favor doubly out of pity, then whenever an old court official took a liking to such a child who came calling, out of sheer affection they’d give him a decent future—sooner or later, he’d turn his fortunes around.

The fifth tier: clever relatives-by-marriage, the most valuable trait being self-awareness and knowing when to advance or retreat. They were cautious, feigning simplicity and poverty, known throughout Yanjing as honest folk. Given a real post by the Emperor, they wouldn’t push for advancement, nor would they slack off—just living steadily and honestly, and relying on their good reputation and financial ease to quietly do good deeds for others when needed. In the end, they’d secure a good marriage alliance, quietly transform their family’s standing, and settle firmly in Yanjing, benefiting their descendants for at least three generations.

The sixth tier: “dragons crossing the river”—this type of young master usually came from no ordinary background. Their elders, if not among the top three regional officials, were certainly frontier governors. They came to the capital ostensibly to study, but really to let the great clan matriarchs get a good look at their handsome faces, hoping to marry a suitably matched wife and settle down—living the rest of their lives in effortless romantic elegance.

The seventh tier: “golden carp”—said to have some legendary ancestor, and mentioned as “the descendant of so-and-so.” They could spend the money of local wealthy gentry, and were always the most extravagant in their spending. This type was also the most complicated—you could never quite tell what they were really in the capital for. Studying? Sure. Taking exams? Sure. Marrying into a prestigious family? Also sure. Regardless of looks, as long as they succeeded, that was enough.

They didn’t lack money either—they simply wanted to cast their net wide and land one big catch. Leap over and become a dragon; if not a dragon, becoming a python would do too. Either way, money spent in the capital was never wasted—they cultivated genuine brotherly connections everywhere. When someone from the provinces came looking for help—filling a vacancy at the Ministry of Personnel, handling a lawsuit, finding the right connections—they knew all the angles. Money spent, and results weren’t always guaranteed, but they’d explain things to you clearly afterward and just blame it on your bad luck.

The eighth tier: talented and refined, but unlucky in fortune and unrestrained by convention. The world, by nature base, loved to fawn over such types—there was always someone willing to pick up the tab wherever they went, madly cheering them on despite their eccentric antics. They never needed to seek out brothels for the night, as the capital’s most sought-after courtesans wept and begged to throw themselves at them. Truly the stuff of every young woman’s dreams in the deep chambers of the capital—yet this sort cared for none of it, spending their lives doing just one thing: cursing the Emperor, cursing high officials, cursing the state of the world, their curses clever and cutting, ten thousand poems and phrases all boiling down to one message: you old dogs, you have no eye for talent! No eye for talent! No eye for talent!… Yet the old dogs remained steady as mountains, and never gave them office.

The ninth tier, most amusing of all: family background lacking in nothing, yet somehow managing to live their lives as dung beetles of Yanjing. If one day a servant reported to the ancestors that the young master had gone out merely to sleep around and chase women, the ancestors would sigh with something like relief at this sign of “progress.”

Every one of them was the fruit of eight generations of ancestors doing enough evil to grow such a vengeful seedling! Not content with rolling their own dung balls, they loved to go about wearing “three layers of skin,” parading through streets and alleys proclaiming to everyone: this is my ancestor’s skin, my parents’ skin, my benefactor’s skin—come, come, let me perform a trick for you, let me peel this skin off bloody, and show you the sack of dung inside—doesn’t it smell sweet?

As for the tenth, lowest tier of young master? Simple enough—gone, finished, ruined, rotten, beyond hope… just like Wu Xiu.

Beyond these ten tiers, there was one more category—young masters who weren’t quite “young masters” at all, because they were born already entangled in the Five Elements themselves. Your father, your mother, your ancestors buried in the ground—if this sort of young master wanted to stir trouble, they needn’t even exert effort; provoke them, and they could dig up three generations of your ancestors from their coffins and expose their corpses.

They ranked only half a step below the imperial princes themselves. Your father served in the same court as them; your teachers and elders competed with their factions; your entire family united couldn’t necessarily win against them alone—that was how terrifying they were, and so no one dared to even try to rank them.

Chang Lianfang, Zheng Aman, and Li Jinggui were of this kind. Chen Dasheng, too, now half-belonged to this category, though he himself didn’t realize it.

A man like that—even knowing it, what would it matter? He’d probably just cleave you clean in half with a blade and curse, “Nonsense!”

By the time the servants had been dragged far off, Zheng Aman sat down in a chair someone brought for him, sipping a cup of cool tea for a while before the temple’s guardian monks finally arrived.

These guardian monks knew perfectly well what kind of trouble had occurred at the temple gate today, but times were different now—all they could do was swallow their anger, silently report to the Buddha, and pray these troublemakers would suffer proper karmic retribution in their next life, ideally reborn as animals.

Seeing the monks arrive, Zheng Aman handed his teacup to an attendant and stood, courteously pressing his palms together and apologizing to the assembled monks. “Amitabha, such a major event at your temple today, and these blind fools had to go and defile these sacred grounds, tarnishing the court’s reputation too… they simply don’t know any better. I’ve heard your temple has a discipline hall…”

The lead monk returned the courtesy politely. “Amitabha, it’s nothing, nothing at all! Our Buddha shows boundless compassion to all, without condition. This is no fault of yours, Young Lord. The temple’s strict precepts only apply to monks and nuns—these young masters aren’t part of our order, so even with a discipline hall, we have no authority over them…”

Zheng Aman smiled easily and pointed at the row of kneeling men. “Then—consider them items I’m leaving in your care. From today, whatever the monks who’ve broken precepts eat, they eat. Whatever labor the monks perform, they perform alongside them. And it won’t even be for long… let’s say, release them after the autumn wheat harvest!”

The guardian monk considered this, glancing at the terrified young wastrels, and for some reason felt a secret satisfaction in his heart. In the end, he nodded.

Cao De and the others were terrified out of their wits, and no longer caring about dignity, stumbled over to Zheng Aman in tears, begging, “Young Lord… we—we’ll kneel to you, will kneeling work? We know we were wrong, we won’t do it again…”

But before they could finish pleading, the monks had already hauled them up.

Someone wet themselves right there, struggling desperately not to go, wailing like a wounded animal—Cao Cheng especially, crying the loudest, as if Zheng Aman were about to have him executed on the spot.

Zheng Aman raised his eyebrows helplessly, walked straight up to the struggling Cao De, reached into his robe and pulled out a silk handkerchief, then turned and pinched Cao Cheng’s chin, wiping the snot and tears from his face while saying, “By rights, Xuan He should call you two ‘uncle’…”

Cao De and the others stopped crying instantly, staring blankly at Zheng Aman, thinking: since you already know we’re the imperial prince’s uncles, why not just let us go?

Xuan He was the childhood name of the Ninth Prince. Because of his poor health, His Majesty hadn’t given him a formal name yet, fearing he might not survive.

Zheng Aman continued, “When Xuan He was born, he was so tiny, sickly all the time. When we went to see him, we didn’t even dare cough too loudly, afraid of startling him.

There are only so few imperial princes in this world! The Empress Dowager has worried herself sick over him. Just because Xuan He wasn’t thriving, she couldn’t sleep well, tossing and turning all night, and at dawn she’d lead the whole harem of consorts in worship and prayer for blessings.

Even the Empress herself observes a vegetarian fast on the first and fifteenth of every month for his sake! Our Consort Jing has had it hard too—how did she end up with brothers like you? She fasts and chants sutras for Xuan He’s sake, the cushions in the palace’s little shrine worn through three times over from her kneeling.

Today, with such a major event happening at this temple, how dare you all come here causing trouble? Mortal eyes may not see it, but can the Buddha not see? Doesn’t this ruin your own sister’s spiritual practice? How many sutras copied in vain, how much charity given for nothing? Pitiful woman, wearing through a hundred cushions with her kneeling, and it still can’t undo the sin you’ve committed today! You enjoy the wealth and privilege she’s given you, and this is how you repay her…”

At last, no one dared make a sound, all of them meekly listening, Cao De’s shoulders shaking with sobs.

Zheng Aman tossed the handkerchief on the ground, looking at the group of wastrels with utter disgust. “Don’t bother hiding, every last one of you—do you think there’s a single face here I don’t recognize? Fine young masters, all of you—at least try to act like decent human beings. Our Shao Shang clan has only just found its footing; we don’t ask you to achieve greatness, but you’re all fathers now, so at least consider how hard it is to be a parent. Don’t make your own fathers, who stand equal with others at court, lose face and shrink three inches in front of everyone else… understood?”

Silence all around—everyone had taken note, no doubt about that. Not one of them dared make a sound, all resigned to their fate.

Zheng Aman nodded to the monks, his tone especially gracious and courteous. “Our family’s misfortune—these are just ignorant children who don’t know better, new money still learning their manners. Today, I trouble you venerable masters to take them away, and please, don’t go easy on them! Anything that happens, just blame me. Run once, break a leg; run twice, send them to me—I’ll teach them myself. Rest assured, their families will send the silver over by evening, they won’t dare waste a single grain of the temple’s rice.”

The lead guardian monk looked deeply at Zheng Aman, chanted a Buddha’s name, and led the group away. But before they’d gone more than a few steps, the young lord called out again, “Wait, wait!”

Everyone stopped in surprise, turning back to look at Zheng Aman.

Zheng Aman, with an impatient expression, pointed at Wu Xiu at the back of the group. “Not this one. Let him go.” Then, even more exasperated, he glared at Cao De and scolded, “Honestly—what kind of people do you even associate with these days? No wonder you’ve all turned out like this, dragging dead fish and rotten shrimp along with you, aren’t you embarrassed enough already?”

With that, Zheng Aman flicked his sleeves and walked off, as if something filthy had touched him.

Aside from Chen Dasheng, whose circle was small, who in the capital didn’t know about the Tan family’s affairs? Who didn’t know how Wu Xiu had lost his finger?

Of course Zheng Aman treated Wu Xiu like filth—it was only natural.

And after witnessing today’s events, the other wastrels would never associate with Wu Xiu again either. Why? Because the circle no longer accepted him.

Never mind Wu Xiu—even Tan Weitong himself, standing before Zheng Aman, wouldn’t dare act arrogant.

Zheng Aman left, the young wastrels were led away by the monks, and even the two distant Tan relatives trembled with fear the whole way, worried Zheng Aman might single them out. Only once they’d entered the temple gates did they finally relax, murmuring a devout chant of the Buddha’s name.

And so, on the open ground before the temple gate, one half filled with devout pilgrims, the other scorched under the blazing sun, stood Wu Xiu, utterly exposed with nowhere to hide.

Wu Xiu felt himself shrinking smaller and smaller, drifting like plankton with nothing to hold onto… weightless, carried by the wind.

Suddenly he remembered something and chased after Zheng Aman’s retreating guards, shouting, “Young Lord! My ancestor was the Confucian general Wu Yisheng! My ancestor Wu Yisheng, sir…”

No one looked back. They walked straight into the temple without so much as a glance.

Wu Xiu, cowed, didn’t dare follow further, and stumbled dazedly down the mountain. The whole way, he wanted to die. Yes—having suffered such humiliation, how could he still bear to live?

In a rare moment of clarity, he remembered his sister’s sorrowful eyes, kneeling before him and saying, “Little brother, I don’t ask you to make something great of yourself, just—just try to save me some face out there, won’t you…”

He did want to make something of himself now—otherwise, he wouldn’t be shamelessly tagging along everywhere, pretending not to notice others’ disdain. Did he not know shame?

He remembered his father’s furious face too, roaring at him, “Unfilial wretch! If you weren’t my only son, I’d have strangled you long ago! The whole Wu family gave up their fortune just to save your worthless life—you call me father? Father?! Should I kneel to you? Would that satisfy you? At least save some face for our ancestors…”

Thinking of his sister, Wu Xiu wept openly; thinking of his father, he felt only fear mixed with resentment.

Lately he often thought—lucky that he was the only remaining heir; if there’d been another son, would they really have strangled him?

Hmph, and the Tan family too—back when his own family held power, what airs had they put on? And now, what airs did they put on?

He still remembered his ninth birthday—Tan Shouyi had personally come to congratulate him, gifting him a magnificent horse, personally lifting him onto its back, praising him as the Wu family’s prized thoroughbred, their unicorn child… And Tan Weitong, wanting to marry his sister, had once dived into a freezing river in deep winter just to retrieve her dropped handkerchief, to please her, even saying something about missing her “like madness” after a single day apart…

Hmph! And now, what airs did these beasts put on? All because of a moment’s indiscretion—it ruined his whole life. All they gave him was a broken seventh-rank storekeeper post, and his sister actually knelt down and kowtowed to her own husband for it.

Everyone in this world was ungrateful, opportunistic scum—just let them wait, wait… just wait!

No one stays lucky forever, there’ll come a day… Hm? Lost in his brooding, Wu Xiu suddenly spotted a familiar face walking down the mountain.

There he was—that very opportunist, the one who’d abandoned his own ancestors to curry favor by taking a eunuch as his adoptive father, the traitorous dog who’d once been a bond servant in the Tan household—Chen Dasheng!

Come to think of it, his own misfortune had started because of this very bastard.

Wu Xiu wiped his dried tears, straightened his robe, and without thinking much, called out, “Well! Isn’t that our Captain Chen, Chen Dasheng! What, struck it rich now and don’t even recognize old acquaintances?”

Chen Dasheng’s steps faltered, and he turned in surprise to look at Wu Xiu, taking a long moment to recognize him.

Being honest and simple by nature, he took a while before hesitantly asking, “Is that… Captain Wu?” As if some memory had suddenly resurfaced, his face paled, and he gave a slight bow. “Captain—Captain Wu, good day to you.”

Wu Xiu wasn’t entirely without sense either—hearing Chen Dasheng call out his name reminded him to feel afraid, but seeing Chen Dasheng’s attitude unchanged from before, he quickly raised his chin again and said, “What, seeing me down on my luck, come to kick me while I’m down?”

There’s a certain kind of person in this world: no matter how well you’re doing now, no matter how high your position has climbed, as long as you were once beneath them, they’ll believe you should stay beneath them, catering to them, forever…

Chen Dasheng walked slowly, step by step, toward Wu Xiu, while Wu Xiu, out of fear, retreated step by step in turn, until he backed all the way to the edge of the road’s field ridge, nearly tripping and falling—only to have someone catch his hand and pull him back.

Chen Dasheng steadied him and asked with an honest, simple expression, “Captain Wu? What are you doing out here?”

Wu Xiu blinked, glanced up at the mountain, then at the simple-looking Chen Dasheng, and coughed. “This—well, early this morning, Brother Cao from the palace, Consort Jing’s family, sent someone to invite me. His nephew, the imperial prince—have you ever met the Ninth Prince, Xuan He?”

Chen Dasheng shook his head honestly. “Never. We’re just outer palace guards.”

Wu Xiu snorted and continued, “I suppose so. An imperial prince, what standing does he have—do you think someone like you, a jumped-up gatekeeper, could just casually meet him?”

He actually could, easily—Chen Dasheng simply didn’t bother.

Seeing Chen Dasheng nod in agreement, Wu Xiu rambled on, “Brother Cao called me twice, I really didn’t want to come, but they insisted! Then I thought, fine, today’s Master Xuanshan’s enshrinement ceremony, might as well soak up some Buddhist blessing, let the Buddha protect his nephew the prince too… So I came! But once I got here, I didn’t feel like staying, they insisted on crying and begging to go into the temple to pray for the Empress and prince…

I didn’t want to go! So I came down on my own… I still have duties, you know, I’m no longer with the Tan family, I’m at the Ministry of War now… manage a small-to-medium office, busy every day, only got some free time today…”

Chen Dasheng, honest and slow-witted as ever, just nodded along—Wu Xiu’s chatter was rather pointless, so he began sizing him up instead.

He’d known Chen Dasheng for a long time—he’d joined the Tan family’s army even earlier than Chen Dasheng, following his brother-in-law from a very young age to build his future, and in doing so had missed the proper time to learn manners from his own family, gaining none of his ancestors’ virtues, only picking up all the crude, thuggish habits of the barracks.

His brother-in-law was Tan Weitong, so naturally he’d been treated as someone above others in the army—looking down on even mid-tier officers with real power back then.

Just like now, he still sized up his old acquaintance with the same old eyes, still thinking him an easy fool to trick—even though the reason the Tan family had lost Old Blade was purely coincidental, had nothing to do with whether Chen Dasheng was foolish, just bad luck on his part.

Maintaining his composure, he looked Chen Dasheng up and down—seeing the cloth wrapped around his head, he sneered slightly; seeing his brand-new cloth robe, he inwardly scoffed. But following his gaze downward, his eyes suddenly lit up—oh? This fool hadn’t been seen in a few days and had really struck it rich, it seemed.

There, around Chen Dasheng’s waist, gleamed a dazzling treasure.

It was a wide jade belt, exquisitely crafted, its colors perfectly matched—top-grade calfskin backing with gold base, edged in vivid red coral, within the coral frame were set seven pieces of top-grade flawless white jade the size of hat plaques, and embedded in the center of the white jade were three-colored gems—red, yellow, green—all identical in size, luster, and shape.

Though the Wu family had fallen, Wu Xiu had once seen fine things—this piece alone was worth at least three hundred strings, and even that might not be enough to acquire it. He might be reduced to sponging off others now, unable to pull out even a few taels to settle a bill, but he could still eyeball the rough value of anything at a glance.

He’d gotten plenty of practice snatching things in the Tan army, especially from the Old Blades.

Not that it mattered—if he didn’t grab it, someone else would. Tan Er didn’t care either, everyone just muddled along together.

In an instant, Wu Xiu ran through everything he knew about Chen Dasheng and the others since coming to the capital. Right, his brother-in-law had said His Majesty was just using them as a front, to squeeze the Tan family’s army.

Which meant His Majesty might not even back them up.

His brother-in-law had also said Chen Dasheng had become the adopted son of a eunuch—that was a bit tricky, and now that he was part of the palace guard, known for their solidarity, if word got around that someone had come after him, he might not be able to withstand the backlash…

But given how tight his own finances were right now, how could a lowly bond servant like him deserve to have such a rare treasure? He didn’t deserve it! Having not seen it was one thing, but now that he had… he had to get his hands on it. Too risky to steal it outright, but couldn’t he trick it out of him?

Thinking this, Wu Xiu pretended not to notice the belt at all, and suddenly reached out to sling an arm around Chen Dasheng’s neck, saying warmly, “Brother, it’s been quite a while since we parted ways, hasn’t it?”

Chen Dasheng, as if unused to such warm treatment, stammered after a moment, “Y-yes, it’s been a few months, Cap—Captain…”

Hearing his usual demeanor unchanged, still with that flattered, awkward tone, Wu Xiu settled his nerves and sighed. “We’ve known each other, what, four or five years now? Think about it, isn’t that right? We clawed our way up from bloodshed together, that’s old history between us. Now our paths have diverged, but back when I first joined the Tan army with my brother-in-law, I was only this tall!”

He gestured with his hand, adding affectionately, “I remember you were skinny and small back then, always crying too!”

Chen Dasheng looked embarrassed, scratched his head, and said, “Heh! Captain Wu remembers all that? I’d forgotten myself, it was so long ago, things are different now.”

Yes, quite different now—a bond servant had become someone above others, yet here he was, wanting to squeeze back into his old circle, needing to loosen his purse strings a bit, put in some effort…

Glancing sideways at Chen Dasheng’s belt, Wu Xiu wrapped an arm around him and forcefully led him down the mountain.

“Come, come, Brother Chen—you and I go way back, and it’s fate we’ve run into each other today. As for all that happened before, this brother of yours truly wronged you all—but ever since you left, I’ve learned my lesson too. Thinking back, hah! It really was youthful arrogance, I went too far! But you can’t blame me either, I was barely more than a child when I joined the camp, I only learned from the others around me—ah, forget it, forget it! Let’s not bring it up… Today we’ve finally met again, must be the Buddha’s arrangement. Come, have a few cups of wine with your brother, and let’s laugh off past grudges once and for all.”

Chen Dasheng waved his hands repeatedly, pulling free. “No need! No need! It’s fine, what’s past is past, Captain Wu. I actually have business to attend to today…”

But Wu Xiu wouldn’t let him go so easily, feigning anger. “What? Even you look down on me now?” He raised his four-fingered palm, twisted and contorted, and said, “You think I’m useless now, crippled, ruined? You look down on me too?”

Chen Dasheng shook his head hurriedly. “No, not at all!”

Wu Xiu snorted angrily. “Then just tell me—will you drink this cup of wine with me or not?”

Chen Dasheng looked around, and finally gritted his teeth. “Fine—but, but I can’t hold my liquor well, I’ll be drunk after just a few cups…”

“Hah, let’s go then!”

Half an hour later, at a small tavern by the official road, the food was ordinary, but two jars of old wine had already been brought out.

Sending the server away, Wu Xiu poured Chen Dasheng a bowl. “Come, come, Captain Chen, let’s down this bowl first before anything else.”

Did he not know Chen Dasheng was no longer who he used to be? He knew it perfectly well, deep down—but he refused to acknowledge it, refused to accept it, and insisted on continuing to look down on this lowly former bond servant, still calling him Captain Chen out of old habit.

Chen Dasheng, thoroughly honest by nature, looked at the bowl of wine with a troubled expression and said, “Captain Wu, I won’t hide it from you, I really can’t drink—I’ve barely had a few drinks in my whole life, one bowl and I’m down for the count.”

Down for the count—perfect!

Wu Xiu laughed even more heartily, drained his own bowl first as a toast, and held up the empty bowl toward Chen Dasheng. “Brother Chen, you can’t look down on me, right? See, I’ve finished mine? How about this—I won’t make it hard on you, let’s say three bowls for me to your one, how about that?”

Chen Dasheng seemed provoked by this, pursed his lips, and finally picked up the bowl of wine, tilted his head back, and gulped it down in one go…