Chapter Forty-Seven: Rarely Does Life Allow Us to Be Truly Drunk

The liquor was like a blade—one gulp down, and it sliced through the throat. This was baodaozi, a fiery spirit, cheap and potent. Many believe that good liquor cannot be inexpensive, and that cheap liquor is never good, but that is not always true. For liquor itself is not a virtuous thing by nature—how could it possibly be good?

Usually, when Shen Lian drank, he chose mild rice wines like Green Ant, low in alcohol, gentle in temperament. The taste of strong spirits searing the throat was truly unpleasant, and baodaozi was among the strongest. Yet Shen Lian did not sip delicately, but drank from a large bowl. Anyone accustomed to his usual refined demeanor would never believe that the one drinking and singing so wildly was Shen Lian himself, though Bai Yujing could only accept the truth.

After all, it was he who brought out the liquor, and he who invited Shen Lian to drink. The only dish to accompany the wine was a plate of peanuts. With his wages, he could hardly afford fine food if he wanted enough wine to go around.

Though the entire inn belonged to Shen Lian and, should he wish, any delicacy could be prepared—even if the cook was already asleep—Shen Lian only wished to drink the wine Bai Yufei offered, and eat the food Bai Yufei served. Bai Yufei felt the same.

“I never imagined you could drink with such gusto,” Bai Yufei said, drunkenly clapping Shen Lian on the shoulder. He had drunk with others before, but it was different with Shen Lian. There was a peculiar magic about Shen Lian, an unshakable sense of reassurance. Become his friend, and he would always be dependable.

With others, Bai Yufei never dared to lose himself in drink. But with Shen Lian, even if both were drunk, he trusted nothing bad would happen. That was Shen Lian, unique beneath the heavens.

“Am I not a forthright man?” Shen Lian’s eyes, blurred with intoxication, still remained clear.

“You are not forthright enough,” Bai Yufei roared with laughter.

“And you?” Shen Lian asked, offhandedly.

“What?” Bai Yufei seemed truly drunk. Ten empty wine jars lay at his feet. For most men, ten jars would not just mean drunkenness, but collapse.

But Bai Yufei did not fall. His training in lightness skills emphasized balance; like a tumbler doll, even inebriated, he never lost his sense of equilibrium.

“I asked if you are not forthright enough,” Shen Lian said, voice rising, and this time Bai Yufei seemed to hear clearly.

“I am a man who does not dare to be forthright,” Bai Yufei burst out laughing again. When drinking, one always thinks their voice is loud, but perhaps it isn’t; yet Shen Lian heard this clearly.

Shen Lian silently patted Bai Yufei’s shoulder. There was nothing left to say; at such a moment, words failed. All that was left was to drink.

Shen Lian was truly drunk.

Kings and conquerors are but fleeting laughter; life is but a drunken dream.

In his own inn, with his own companion.

There was no purpose to this night’s drinking, save that Bai Yufei wished to share a drink, and Shen Lian agreed.

Shen Lian could not be called joyless—merely not joyful enough. It stemmed from an insecurity deep within himself.

Bai Yufei, too, was a forthright man, but in all his life had never found a true confidant. Thus, he did not dare to be forthright, for if he spent all his joy at once, who knew if another chance would come? But tonight, they were both truly, thoroughly drunk.

When Shen Lian opened his eyes, it was not morning, but midday.

For two years, he had never risen so late. Sleep had been uneasy, and now the headache from last night’s wine began to throb. It wasn’t that his body couldn’t bear alcohol, but that he had drunk far too much.

Bai Yufei had succumbed after the twelfth jar—Shen Lian had still been counting then.

By the time Shen Lian finally collapsed, he had no idea how many jars he’d downed.

He did not know that this time, the wine was offered not only by Bai Yufei, but also by Steward Wu.

The bed was soft and comfortable, while outside, the weather was bitterly cold. In such conditions, few could drag themselves up.

But there is truth in the saying: why sleep long in life, when in death we will slumber forever?

Shen Lian was one of those few.

When he entered the inn’s main hall as usual, Bai Yufei was already at work. Save for being more diligent than the other staff, no one could have guessed he was the infamous thief known throughout the land.

The higher one flies, the more one savors the solidity of earth beneath their feet.

Bai Yufei’s martial arts were not yet supreme, but Shen Lian believed that in ten or twenty years, he might reach the pinnacle.

Unfortunately, he was not destined for the immortal path—but that was no cause for sorrow.

After all, the vast majority in this world have no fate with the immortals, nor with the martial world; they are but ordinary folk among the masses.

Steward Wu handed Shen Lian an invitation—it was for Shen Ruoxi’s poetry gathering.

Purple, the color of nobility.

Shen Ruoxi’s gatherings, naturally, stirred the city.

It was the lean, bleak winter; there was little else for amusement. Shen Ruoxi had originally invited only a few familiar ladies of high birth, never imagining it would cause such a sensation.

The Plum Blossom Poetry Gathering was held at a Shen family estate, and on that day, throngs of people filled the grounds. Prized horses, carriages, and fragrant perfumes crowded the road; the night was alive with dancers, dragons, and merriment.

There were gifted scholars and fair ladies, wealthy merchants and honored guests—but never common folk.

For those who grow bored in the lean, bleak winter are never those toiling for their daily bread.

The worries of the poor are not for entertainment’s lack, for when destitute, even a piece of meat or a cup of wine at night is a rare luxury.

Shen Ruoxi, of course, was not poor. She would never know, in her life, what want truly meant.

A maiden’s heart is always filled with poetry, yet the daughters of the poor, no matter how poetic their nature, have no means to express it.

Shen Ruoxi was lucky—not only could she do as she pleased, but there were always those willing to help.

Qingzhou was never the cradle of literature, and as the gathering drew to its close, no masterpiece had appeared. Yet everyone’s spirits were high.

“In the forest of ice and snow, I stand alone,
Not mingling with peach and plum in common dust;
Suddenly one night, my fragrance unfurls,
Scattering spring for ten thousand miles across the world.”

The gentle recitation could not disguise the proud aloofness in the verse.

As soon as the poem was spoken, all present lost their composure.

Even the scholars of some repute could only bow their heads before this quatrain, destined to echo through the ages.

The power of poetry is to transcend class, wealth, and even culture.

No one is born base; it is only life, with all its dust and distractions, that leads us to bicker for empty fame and petty gain.

A true masterpiece stirs the hearts of most, awakening the goodness within.

On the high dais, Shen Ruoxi stood veiled. She had saved this poem for the moment when the gathering reached its peak, ensuring her instant renown.

Its tone, cold and refined, was familiar after countless recitations, yet now, hearing it again, she could not help but feel a faint sorrow.

She felt she understood her cousin a little more.

It was a pity Shen Lian was not by her side. Her gaze swept over the assembled guests, but he was not among them.

She did not notice, behind a flowering plum, someone waved to her, then turned and disappeared into the winter night.

The twelfth lunar month was nearly over; spring was just around the corner, and surely, the season of blossoming was not far away.