In the year 320 CE, the imperial surname of Tiandu was Huo. The seventh son, Qingyun, ascended to the throne at the age of fourteen, succeeding the deceased king. He was crowned at the Bingci Palace in the capital city of Huairou, where tens of thousands paid homage. He drank a whole jar of Zhuo Ba wine in one gulp, and the entire realm celebrated wildly.
The shamanic priest Hun Ran declared that Qingyun was destined for greatness, with a solitary star entering his fate. He prophesied that the new king would remain wifeless for life.
The new king quelled the rebellion of the northern frontier royal clan. Thereafter, no royal family member died of poisoning again. On the day he took personal control of the government, he established an isolationist policy, and Tiandu vanished from sight.
The Queen Mother bestowed upon him the honorific title of King Jing Tian.
For three days, the sand shifted from red to blue, from hot to cold, back and forth, tormenting him.
Rong Huo was confined in a beast cage at the castle gate, without a grain of rice to eat. Every day when the moon rose in the cool sky, someone would bring him a pot of bitter fragrant tea to soothe his hungry stomach. The torment of near-fainting hunger afflicted the aged Rong Huo. Finally, on the third day, he was carried, cage and all, into the castle’s great hall.
The simple and plain inner hall, though lacking in splendor and nobility, still exuded an inescapable sense of solemn majesty. At the forefront stood a grand chair symbolizing supreme status. Qingyun sat upon it with a hint of laziness, like a ferocious male lion, his gaze dark and deep.
“Master Rong, how have you fared these past few days?” he asked with a smile.
Rong Huo leaned against the cage bars, barely clinging to life. He waved a hand weakly before struggling to say, “By your grace, this old bag of bones has never so despised his endurance as now. An early death and reincarnation might have been preferable!”
Qingyun giggled, his cold, resplendent voice freezing the air in the hall. Rong Huo finally regained some clarity and slowly raised his head to look at him.
With two claps of his hands, Qingyun summoned two young women in plain clothes to bring out a table of delicacies and place it in the center.
As soon as Rong Huo caught the enticing aroma of oil and rice, his stomach churned and his mind roared. One glance was enough to recognize that the three dishes on the table—Phoenix Blood Chicken, White Dew Snow Fish, and Flower Field Lily—were all specialties of Rong Huo’s late wife.
“Young lord, surely you’re not this cruel! Do you intend to feast on this grand meal before the eyes of this starving old man? This elder would rather dash his brains out than endure such torment!”
Hearing this, Qingyun let out a muffled grunt and began toying with a dagger he picked up. “Master, you disappoint me greatly. A man who wishes to keep a secret, yet cannot withstand even this much torment, how dare you speak so casually of life and death!” As he spoke, his eyes focused, and the flying dagger in his hand instantly shot towards the cage. With a clang, the short blade broke the chain on the cage, then fell to the ground with three dull thuds.
“Come out! This table of delicacies is prepared to welcome you, Master!” Qingyun smiled as he watched Rong Huo crawl out of the cage. “However, you must first drink those three cups of welcoming wine!”
Rong Huo stood by the table, in a wretched state. He looked down at the three small cups of wine before him, their rims gleaming with an unpredictable light in the hazy glow. He licked his dry lips, thinking that he was already starving to death, so what did it matter if the wine was poisoned or not? He downed the first cup in one swift motion.
Qingyun, sitting to the side, watched his hasty drinking with a mocking smile.
Woo! Just one cup of wine, seemingly not poisoned, made Rong Huo freeze instantly. After a moment, his face turned bright red, his whole body shaking uncontrollably, and he finally collapsed to the ground.
“Ba wine? Pure brew?” he asked incredulously.
“Correct! It’s what I drink every day!” Qingyun replied.
“Two cups remaining, Master!”
Rong Huo looked at the second cup of wine with terror, his gaze already quite unfocused. He had never drunk pure Ba wine before. The potency of Ba wine was unmatched; no one could withstand it, which was why it was always diluted for drinking.
Rong Huo, breathing with difficulty, propped himself up and gazed at the dishes on the table for a while. Finally, he managed to pick up the second cup of wine and gulped it down. Thud! He fell to the ground again, both hands pressing hard against his nose, yet unable to stop the bright red blood from flowing everywhere. He coughed while looking at the indifferent Qingyun.
“One more cup, Master!” Qingyun smiled.
Rong Huo couldn’t stop the nosebleed, and the skin on his hands began to take on a bluish deathly hue. Sweating profusely, he rolled on the ground in agony. After a while, his broken, intermittent words could be heard, “I… give in!”
Hearing this, Qingyun laughed heartily, “Old Master Rong, you truly are just a sour scholar! One cup of wine makes you surrender; what right do you have to play games with me?” He waved his hand, summoning several maids to feed Rong Huo some medicine to counteract the wine. Rong Huo awoke in a daze, his face full of pain.
Once seated, he began to eat the dishes on the table with large mouthfuls, tears streaming down his face. The oily fragrance sliding down his parched throat was accompanied by his salty sobs. For thirty years since his wife’s passing, he had never properly eaten these three dishes again. He couldn’t bear to, because with each bite, he would hear his late wife’s tender voice; with two bites, he would see her lovesick smile; with three bites, he could no longer see her face or hear her laughter. He didn’t want to endure that bitterness again. However, today, it seemed as if the passage of time had taken away that bone-deep sorrow, leaving only fragments of longing lingering around him. Now, it didn’t matter how many bites he took; it was all fine.
A person’s emotions are like a certain secret; one day they might suddenly change. Although you still can’t deny its importance, you equally can’t resolutely persist in it. So, if love can turn into nostalgia, then a secret can also become a transaction.
Qingyun strolled to Rong Huo’s side, patted him on the shoulder, then picked up the remaining cup of wine and drank it in one go. Rong Huo stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Does Master know why it’s called Ba wine?” Qingyun asked.
“Because Ba wine is so potent that it doesn’t mix with any poison. Its spiciness can not only kill those addicted to alcohol but also disperse any poison added to it,” Rong Huo said, looking at the empty wine cup. “From 114 CE to 320 CE, over thirty kings of Tiandu’s Bingci Palace died from poisoned wine, until Young Lord ascended the throne and put an end to that customary poisoning! All because Young Lord regularly drinks Ba wine, rendering poisoning attempts useless.” In Rong Huo’s view, much of Tiandu’s history began to be rewritten starting with King Jing Tian.
“The old history recorder indeed lives up to his name,” Qingyun sat down, also looking at the empty wine cup, and spoke as if in casual conversation: “In the Northern Desert, wine is a friendly thing because it helps countless people withstand the extreme cold of the north. So, in Tiandu, regardless of the reason, dying from drinking is shameful, especially for a king!” As he spoke, he lifted the wine cup to his lips and let a single drop of remaining Ba wine slide down his throat, appearing quite dashing.