The Shaochun liquor didn’t suit Bao Zhu’s taste, but the lamb was steamed to perfection, tender and flavorful. Since her fall from grace, she rarely encountered meat dishes, so she picked up one chopstick-full after another. Unfortunately, the hot weather attracted several green-headed flies drawn by the meaty smell, buzzing around with flower-legged mosquitoes in a most appetite-spoiling harassment.

Wei Xun drew a dagger from his waist, lightly pushed the guard, revealing an inch of blade, and laid it horizontally on the table. Whether from the sword’s aura or its murderous qi, the mosquitoes and flies immediately fled as if avoiding disaster.

Bao Zhu was quite amazed. Recalling her days living at Cuiwei Temple, she had never been bothered by insects and had thought it was because the detached palace was built in an auspicious location blessed with dragon qi. Now thinking about it, it was likely because this dagger was always by her side—truly a treasure blade indeed.

Seeing her eating only the dishes without touching the wine, Shisan Lang asked while chewing dried tofu, “Jiu Niang doesn’t drink well?”

The young woman replied, “I can manage a few cups, but I prefer sweet wine.”

“My senior martial brother likes to seek out century-old vintage wines in ancient tombs, saying they have the most mellow taste and are the best to drink, plus they’re free.”

Hearing him say this, Bao Zhu was quite astonished.

Everyone loved aged wine, but alcoholic beverages weren’t like gold, silver, pearls, or jade. Even if stored in large quantities, drinking one jar meant one less jar, not to mention whether collections could survive family succession and dynastic changes. Thinking about it this way, indeed only special places like ancient tombs could preserve them.

She felt a bit disgusted: “But those wines were all buried with dead people—doesn’t that make you nauseous?”

Wei Xun smiled: “In this world, there are far more living people who are more nauseating than the dead. Comparatively speaking, the dead are actually peaceful—no matter what status they held in life, once reduced to dry bones, they can no longer commit evil.”

Bao Zhu thought about it and found this reasonable. With renewed interest, she asked, “Can the wine in ancient tombs really be drunk? Doesn’t it spoil?”

“At most one out of ten portions is drinkable. The rest either dried up from poor preservation or rotted beyond recognition.”

Bao Zhu said, “The most aged wine I’ve ever drunk was a 120-year-old Qianhe grape wine at last year’s Spring Contest Banquet, and I got drunk after just two cups. My elder brother said strong liquor harms the body and told me to only drink newly brewed wine in the future. What’s the most aged wine you’ve ever drunk?”

Wei Xun thought for a moment and said, “It should be wine from a bronze ewer with a lifting handle in a Shang Dynasty noble’s tomb. When opened, a strange fragrance wafted out. Inside remained only two fingers’ height of liquid, amber in color.”

Bao Zhu exclaimed in surprise, “A thousand-year vintage! That taste must have been like celestial nectar!”

Wei Xun smiled and shook his head: “It tasted just like plain water. I suppose after so much time, all the alcoholic properties had evaporated, leaving only the fragrance. The taste of wine relates to storage time, but the original quality is more important. Poor wine remains poor wine even after a thousand years.”

The two chatted enthusiastically about wine for a while. Wei Xun recounted various fine wines he had tasted, and Bao Zhu asked again, “What’s the most fragrant and mellow beautiful wine you’ve drunk in tombs?”

He immediately began, “It was you…”

He had meant to say the most fragrant and mellow was a jar of “Imperial Bestowed Condensed Dew Nectar” he’d drunk in the princess’s underground palace—truly lingering in taste. But realizing that saying “the best wine was from your tomb” face-to-face would be rather strange, he immediately held back and shifted the conversation elsewhere.

Wei Xun privately thought that he usually regarded moral proprieties as nothing, was rebellious and unrestrained in speech, yet today he somehow found himself caring about his words and behavior in her presence. He found this quite peculiar. With this mental obstacle, the wine after killing didn’t flow as freely as usual.

While they talked, a middle-aged man in a dark red silk shirt with a steel whip at his waist entered the shop. Without taking a seat, he walked straight to the counter, pointed in their direction, said a few words in low voice, paid, and left.

The shop owner personally brought over a tray with four wine jugs, looking at Wei Xun with increasing respect and even some fear: “This young master has so many friends—someone else came to send wine. Master Qiao of Qilin Horn Whip instructed us to serve you well, saying to send double whatever you ordered last time.”

Originally just wanting to find a quiet place to drink and chat, but being repeatedly interrupted, Wei Xun’s face showed annoyance as he stated directly: “If anyone else comes to bother us, no matter who it is, tell them to get lost.”

“Yes, yes. Double again would be eight jugs—this table can’t even fit them all. Even drinking water, one couldn’t drink that much.”

The shop owner set down the newly delivered wine jugs while clearing empty bowls and dishes, but discovered the previous three jugs were already empty, feeling puzzled. Looking at these two people, both young, they didn’t seem like heavy drinkers.

After this second occurrence, Bao Zhu also sensed something amiss. However, she was accustomed to being surrounded by admirers, high above others, always the most attention-grabbing person in any crowd. Today in this small shabby shop, she was merely a supporting character, making her feel somewhat sourly uncomfortable.

After the shop owner left, Shisan Lang said to Wei Xun with a bitter smile, “It seems our tracks have been exposed. Senior brother should leave a wall mark.”

Bao Zhu stared with wide eyes, looking at one then the other, not understanding. She wondered if he was going to compose poetry, but he didn’t carry a scholar’s bag with ink and brush.

Wei Xun brooded unhappily for a moment, then took a blue stone from the small pouch at his waist that held flint. Among the graffiti, he found a blank space and drew a simple figure with a few strokes—long ears and tufted fur, looking like a blue lynx crouching on a rock.

Bao Zhu had been expecting to appreciate his masterpiece, never imagining he would draw such a thing on the wall. She couldn’t help but burst into giggles.

“What’s that? I thought you were going to write poetry!”

Wei Xun felt quite embarrassed and buried his head in drinking, one bowl after another.

Shisan Lang explained for him: “Jiu Niang, don’t laugh. This isn’t a drawing—it’s a qúyù là.”

“What thing?”

“It’s a kind of underworld code… When passing through unfamiliar territory, one must leave a mark. First, to facilitate contact with companions; second, to notify local colleagues so as not to give offense.”

Shisan Lang pointed for Bao Zhu to see: “Look, this flower-sparrow represents a bandit nicknamed ‘Forest Sparrow,’ with five feathers on its tail meaning his group has five people. This mortar represents a wandering hero nicknamed ‘Heart of Iron and Stone.’ The crack indicates he’s injured, and the pestle facing west means he’s heading west. There are many other complex pieces of information that can’t be explained all at once.”

Bao Zhu laughed, “I understand. This lynx represents Wei Xun himself. The tufted ears pointing east means we’re heading east, right?”

Shisan Lang nodded: “Jiu Niang is very clever.”

Bao Zhu asked again, “Why don’t you draw one?”

Shisan Lang sighed, saying dejectedly, “I hadn’t finished my apprenticeship when my master died. Only established figures in the underworld have the right to leave wall marks—lackeys and followers can’t draw randomly.”

Bao Zhu understood. Those jianghu people sending wine might not have any deep friendship with Wei Xun, perhaps just fearing his reputation and worrying he might cause trouble in their territory, so they sent wine first as a gesture of goodwill.

Looking at the wall graffiti again, everything seemed fresh and eye-opening. That blue lynx, drawn with just a few casual strokes, appeared vigorous and spirited with remarkable charm. But remembering Wei Xun’s childhood nickname was Linu (Raccoon Slave), she covered her mouth and laughed softly again, her voice clear as a bell.

“Could your jianghu nickname be something-something Lynx?”

Shisan Lang glanced at his senior brother and said quietly, “That’s not it. Besides, nicknames are given by others, not taken by oneself…”

Wei Xun deeply regretted his actions.

Earlier he had teased her with the puppet show, never expecting retribution to come so quickly. Originally he hadn’t found his nickname or wall markings particularly amusing, but seeing her laughing so delightedly while inquiring, he suddenly felt everything about himself was quite ridiculous.

So he spoke no more, drinking cup after cup, quickly draining those several jugs. With twenty or thirty bowls of strong liquor in his stomach, not only did he show no signs of intoxication, his complexion actually grew paler the more he drank.

Drinking in such manner, even those impressive and robust guests with ten-span waists would stumble and fall into unconsciousness, yet this slender young man drank as easily as if it were water. Other customers in the tavern, along with the shop owner, wine master, and cook, all came out to watch.

Having drunk every drop of wine on the table dry, Wei Xun rose to settle the bill. Seeing Bao Zhu’s cup still untouched before her, he reached over and drained it in one gulp.

Though they had shared food multiple times on this journey—a flatbread or a pear—those had always been broken apart first. Seeing him casually drink from vessels she had used without any concern, Bao Zhu felt somewhat embarrassed.

Yet Wei Xun’s actions were natural and unrestrained. If she made a fuss, it would seem petty, so she could only pretend nothing had happened. But the young woman’s jade-white cheeks slowly flushed with a drunk-like rosy red. She hastily put on her hat and lowered her veil to cover her face.

Shisan Lang looked at one then the other, picked up a chopstick to tap the empty bowl, saying, “This Shaochun wine is truly strange—the one who drank doesn’t blush, but the one who didn’t drink is red-faced.”

Hearing this, Bao Zhu’s face burned even more. Mortified and angry, she curved her index finger and flicked his bald head hard.

Shisan Lang dully covered his head: “Ow, why hit me?”

Bao Zhu said angrily, “I could even hit Li Yuanyi—why can’t I hit you, you loose-tongued bald thief?!”

Seeing her eyebrows raised in fury and murderous aura surrounding her, Shisan Lang dared not argue back. Having taken a head-knock for nothing, he sighed mournfully, “Suffering, oh suffering!” while hurriedly stuffing the leftover dried tofu and fried dough twists into his shirt front.

Author’s Note: The qúyù là comes from “Miscellaneous Morsels from Youyang”—it was indeed a code used by underworld people for communication, but specific details weren’t recorded, so I made them up.