A modest attempt at gauging one's tolerance for wine

Zhang Ling couldn't help but sigh, "Senior Yang's skill at defensive swordplay is truly remarkable—impenetrable, not a drop leaks through."

A sigh drifted over, and Qin Yi remarked, "Two disasters in one day. My manor will surely be destroyed at the hands of these two."

Zhang Ling observed Yang Xiao's sword defense intently, his own hands mimicking the movements, each stance etched into his memory. As a green leaf fluttered down, Yang Xiao, who had been defending all along, suddenly thrust his sword straight through the leaf, slicing Lin Rui's sleeve. Seeing this, Yang Xiao immediately withdrew and changed the direction of his blade.

After lowering his sword, Yang Xiao hurried forward, concerned, "Rui Rui, are you alright?"

Zhang Ling couldn't help but chuckle, never expecting that, despite their age, they still addressed each other so intimately. Qin Yi, however, was used to such things. Through his mask, his expression flickered, a trace of tears flashed in his eyes and vanished in an instant.

Lin Rui pushed Yang Xiao away, proudly retorting, "Your swordsmanship has improved—you aren't even my match anymore."

Yang Xiao, as if soothing a child, offered an apologetic smile, "How could I ever be your opponent, madam? But since we're teaching the younger generation, I must put in my best effort."

Lin Rui ignored him, while Yang Xiao assumed a senior’s posture and asked Zhang Ling, "Did you see clearly?"

Zhang Ling nodded and demonstrated the defensive technique Yang Xiao had taught him. Though his sword moves differed, he grasped the essence, taking up a proper defensive stance.

Yang Xiao looked at Zhang Ling in surprise and exclaimed, "You truly are gifted."

Lin Rui stepped forward to add, "Practicing sword alone won't suffice—you need someone to spar with. If you wish to catch up with those prodigies of your generation, you must continually test yourself against others."

She turned to Yang Xiao, "Go on, we finally found a promising youngster. Don’t spoil him."

Yang Xiao twirled his sword as if it were wrapped around his hand, faced Zhang Ling, and gave him a peculiar smile. "Zhang Ling, don’t let down the expectations of your seniors. Watch carefully now."

With that, Yang Xiao advanced, his sword light as the breeze, swift and unimpeded. In an instant, he appeared beside Zhang Ling. Zhang Ling hastily raised his sword to block, but just as their blades were about to meet, Yang Xiao’s sword curled like a serpent around a beam, took a sharp turn, and struck Zhang Ling’s hip with its back. Zhang Ling shrank forward, intending to counter with a swift strike, but Yang Xiao gave him no chance, pressing him again with incredible speed and striking hard.

In less than half the time it takes an incense stick to burn, Zhang Ling was clutching bruises all over his body beneath his brocade robe. If Yang Xiao had used the blade’s edge, blood would have flowed, but even so, Yang Xiao’s sword moved at a speed beyond Zhang Ling’s reach. Though Zhang Ling had mastered the defensive technique, he could not defend against Yang Xiao’s attacks.

At that moment, Zhang Ling finally understood: Yang Xiao’s strange smile earlier was simply venting his own frustrations, but as a junior, Zhang Ling could only endure in silence. He quietly said, "Thank you, Senior."

As he finished, Zhang Ling turned to leave.

"Zhang Ling, with such laziness, how can you ever catch up with the prodigies of your generation? Hurry back!"

Yang Xiao reached out to grab Zhang Ling, but just as his hand neared Zhang Ling’s sleeve, another hand intervened.

Following the sleeve upward, it was Qin Yi. Seeing Yang Xiao withdraw his hand, Qin Yi covered his own and said calmly, "Master Yang, let’s call it a day."

Yang Xiao chuckled, "Where, where—"

Before the last word had left his mouth, Lin Rui pulled him aside, glaring fiercely, "You call yourself a senior? Venting your anger on the younger generation—have you no shame?"

Yang Xiao, a true hero who knows when to yield, immediately admitted his fault. His shameless demeanor reminded Zhang Ling of someone he’d seen before.

Qin Yi glanced at the sky, now shading toward night, and addressed the three, "It’s getting late. Let’s all return and rest."

Leaving only those words behind, Qin Yi turned and walked down the corridor, his departing figure tinged with loneliness.

Zhang Ling bid farewell to the other two, caught up to Qin Yi, and finally asked, "Master Qin, we have never met before. You taught me to ride, and had two seniors instruct me in swordsmanship—it’s hardly reasonable."

Qin Yi suddenly stopped and looked at him, "Perhaps I see fate in you."

Zhang Ling was skeptical; though he knew little of Qin Yi, the treacherous world of the martial arts seldom offered such windfalls.

Qin Yi moved on, gesturing for Zhang Ling to follow. They walked beneath a row of trees, where Qin Yi dug out two jars of wine. The moonlight reflected off them as they sat in a small pavilion. Qin Yi uncorked both jars, and their fragrance made Zhang Ling feel a little tipsy.

"Do you drink?" Qin Yi asked, his tone tinged with chill.

Zhang Ling shook his head. Wine, in moderation, promotes circulation, but in excess harms the body—though for experts like them, the matter was different.

Qin Yi poured a bowl for Zhang Ling and pushed it to him, "Go on, have a taste."

Zhang Ling couldn’t refuse. He picked up the bowl, sniffed it—its aroma was strong, suggesting it had aged for many years, yet it was still recognizable as peach blossom wine. He drank, expecting the same harsh burn as before, but after a while, a subtle fragrance bloomed.

Qin Yi asked, "Is it good?"

Zhang Ling shook his head, "I don’t like it."

Qin Yi was surprised, "Why do you say that?"

Zhang Ling answered thoughtfully, "Good taste doesn’t mean I like it. Bad taste doesn’t mean I dislike it."

"You truly can't be underestimated. I thought you, new to the martial world, wouldn’t understand such things." Qin Yi smiled, raised the jar, and poured the clear wine straight into his mouth without spilling a drop.

Zhang Ling poured another bowl for himself and drank, leaving Qin Yi puzzled.

Before Qin Yi could ask, Zhang Ling spoke, "Good taste doesn’t mean you’ll drink it. Bad taste doesn’t mean you won’t. Liking or not liking is just the same."

Qin Yi smiled without replying, continuing to drink. The wisdom he intended to share had already been voiced by the youth, leaving him a little disheartened and altering his view of Zhang Ling completely. Zhang Ling poured himself yet another bowl, and after a few more, his face flushed red. He collapsed drunkenly onto the table. Qin Yi kept drinking from the jar, as if his thirst were a bottomless abyss, never drunk, the moonlight bathing his countless sorrows.

It wasn't until the next morning, when the sun’s rays pierced Zhang Ling’s eyelids, that he woke. Drowsy, he rubbed his eyes and looked up to find Qin Yi sitting quietly across from him, evidently awake all night.

Zhang Ling stood, stretched, and shook the empty wine jar on the table, "All gone."

Qin Yi slid over a bowl of water. Zhang Ling sniffed—it was indeed just water.

Qin Yi smiled gently, "From now on, don’t drink with others unless you must. If you do, remember: for ordinary wine, you get nine bowls. For the strong stuff, don’t touch even a cup."

Zhang Ling felt as though he were being mocked. After finishing the water, he felt clearer, rubbed his sore neck, and casually said, "Bah, I’m done talking to you."

With that, Zhang Ling headed off along the gravel path.

After Zhang Ling had left, Qin Yi poured the remaining wine in his bowl onto the ground, pondering how the whole manor could share a drink amid blooming flowers.