Chapter Seventy: A Hundred Jars of Wine for the Wedding Sponsor, Misfortunes Turned to Fortunes

Brilliant stars illuminate the boudoir, auspicious day and fine hour for the union of wine cups; the beloved couple, joyful as fish in water, may their love last as long as the full moon and blooming flowers endure.

“Let us rejoice today at the union of these two families, sealing their vows in this hall, forging a bond that will last forever, a match worthy of praise. See how the peach blossoms blaze, propitious for home and harmony. Let us divine that in years to come, their progeny will flourish, their lineage ever thriving. With this vow of growing old together, inscribed upon fine paper, let the pledge of fallen red leaves be recorded in their book of love. This is the witness!” The lame Daoist, wine gourd at his waist, intoned the ceremonial words with great solemnity.

That day, no outsiders attended the Zhang family’s celebration; all under heaven rejoiced with them. Song Mo, Tang Yi, and Jiang Wanyi did not leave, and, warmly welcomed, became witnesses to the union.

Though they had missed the flower wine, Xia Yu kept them company at the table, and even Lord Xiaoshan, Shu Mingli—who knew no others there—joined them. Since among them were both humans and spirits, as well as practitioners of the arcane, they could not go to the main hall, so a table was set in the rear garden, quiet and elegant.

Song Mo had removed the broken blade from his chest; aside from the occasional seep of blood, he was little worse for wear.

“I have offended you all before; let me use this cup of wine to express my apologies,” Lord Xiaoshan said, raising his glass and draining it.

All present were people of the Jianghu; as is their custom, a laugh puts all enmity to rest.

“You are wounded; drink less,” Tang Yi said, frowning at Song Mo.

“This is flower wine—drinking a little is good for you, nothing to worry about.” Song Mo paid little heed as he raised his cup, only to find two pairs of cold eyes fixed on him.

One belonged to Tang Yi, the other to Jiang Wanyi.

Well then, Song Mo thought, what’s this about? Jiang Wanyi, jealous over him?

Lord Xiaoshan and Shu Mingli seemed a bit downcast. After all, they had just married off a niece and sister—how could there not be some reluctance?

Setting down his cup, Song Mo sought to lighten the mood. “Steward Shu, the brother and sister took human form a century ago. You, though—how have you managed to stay true to yourself all this time?”

Shu Mingli smiled. “Actually, I attained the Dao before any of them, but I was born timid and so never dared take that step.”

Song Mo, curious, pressed further: “Zhao Yueshu was guided in cultivation by the Mountain Lord, and Lord Xiaoshan is the Mountain Lord’s shadow made manifest. How did you come to receive the Mountain Lord’s help?”

Shu Mingli smiled awkwardly, but said nothing.

“A little mouse demon, he awakened his spirit out of greed for food.” The lame Daoist appeared from nowhere, sprawling at the table and grabbing a hunk of beef to chew with relish.

He took a swig from his gourd and said, “Timid as a mouse, when will you ever attain the Dao? Will you spend your whole life trapped in a mouse’s body?”

With that, the Daoist tapped his plate and sang, “Where does one seek the Great Way? I know it in my heart. Ask not the high clouds, but follow your true self.”

When he finished, he went on drinking as if nothing had happened, leaving the others baffled.

Only Shu Mingli fell into deep thought, then suddenly stood up, bowed, and knelt before the Daoist. “Thank you, Daoist master, for your guidance. I shall never forget your kindness.”

With these words, Shu Mingli turned and left, without another word.

“Brilliant, brilliant! He has understood,” the Daoist said, clapping and laughing.

Song Mo, though not entirely clear on the Daoist’s actions, knew in his heart that the Daoist had enlightened Shu Mingli.

Unconsciously, Song Mo found that the Daoist’s figure now loomed far larger in his mind.

“No discrimination in teaching,” flashed through Song Mo’s thoughts.

The Daoist, as a practitioner, showed no disdain for demons aspiring to the Dao; whether Zhao Yueshu, Lord Xiaoshan, or now Shu Mingli, he had guided them all—truly, he was a teacher to all, without distinction.

“In truth, Uncle Shu is the most gifted cultivator among us; he’s just too timid,” Lord Xiaoshan remarked with some feeling.

“Old Daoist, what did you mean when you said Steward Shu awakened his spirit out of greed for food?” Song Mo asked, recalling the Daoist’s earlier words.

The Daoist only grinned, tearing a chicken leg from the platter to eat with his wine, his slovenly appearance enough to make anyone blush.

“That was long ago—my father once told me,” Lord Xiaoshan explained, setting down his cup.

“You know, my father became an immortal from a lingzhi mushroom, and cultivated for a thousand years. But as the years passed, progress slowed. To absorb more of the sun and moon’s essence, my father had to keep moving higher and higher.” Lord Xiaoshan smiled at the memory, not with mischief, but with pure, simple joy.

Song Mo suddenly realized something and asked in a low voice, “Does that mean the great pit and the cave above in the Fox Immortal’s grotto were once where the Mountain Lord dwelled?”

Lord Xiaoshan nodded, smiling. “That’s right—those were my father’s former abodes.”

Song Mo was astounded. That pit was huge, and the cave above several fathoms high—just how large was the Mountain Lord’s true form?

Lord Xiaoshan continued, “Once, as my father was moving higher again, a mountain mouse appeared out of nowhere and bit into his body. Though my father lost some spiritual energy, he was kind and bore no grudge. The mouse, in turn, awakened its spirit and began to cultivate.”

At this, all understood—the mouse was none other than Shu Mingli.

Hearing this fantastic tale, Song Mo couldn’t help but marvel inwardly. So luck plays a part in cultivation after all—Shu Mingli’s fortune was truly extraordinary.

After eating and drinking his fill, the Daoist sat to one side, picking his teeth. For all his slovenly dress, his teeth were as white as pearls—a curious sight.

Jiang Wanyi hesitated for a long time before finally asking, “Elder, do you know the art of sword-flying?”

The Daoist nodded. Seeing her eagerness to learn, he said gravely, “To be frank, girl, your constitution is ill-suited to the sword path, especially the art of sword-flying. Even if you devoted your life to it, you might never succeed.”

Jiang Wanyi’s expression changed slightly, but she straightened and replied, “Thank you for your guidance, elder. Having chosen this path, I shall not give up unless the sword shatters and I perish.”

The Daoist nodded in approval, his gaze falling on Song Mo. A mischievous smile crept onto his lips.

Song Mo saw at once that the Daoist was up to something and tried to slip away.

But the Daoist seized him. “That girl is not suited to this path, but you are. Why don’t you kowtow to me? I’ll teach you the art of sword-flying.”

Song Mo had witnessed the Daoist’s swordsmanship and yearned for the glory of soaring through the heavens, but he only wished to remain inconspicuous, sewing up corpses in the mortuary and earning his rewards.

After all, a tall tree catches the wind, and a man’s wealth is his crime. Having lived twice, he understood this better than anyone.

“No, no, fighting and killing isn’t for me,” Song Mo protested, waving his hands and feigning cowardice.

“Sly boy, it’s not up to you,” the Daoist said, doing as he pleased. Since he had decided to take a disciple, he needed no one’s consent.

With a light kick, he forced Song Mo to kneel, then tapped him lightly on the forehead with sword-shaped fingers. Song Mo’s eyes went blank.

After ten breaths, Song Mo came to, his gaze flashing coldly before returning to normal.

The Daoist laughed. “Ha! I’ve imparted to you all I know of the sword, all my insights and skills. Will you not call me master?”

“Damn old Daoist, are you playing tricks on me on purpose?” Song Mo grumbled, glancing at Jiang Wanyi. Sure enough, she was now looking at him as if he were some rare treasure.

“With things settled here, I shall roam the world for a time,” the Daoist said, rising on his sword. Lord Xiaoshan jumped up after him, and together they flew away.

“Who first perceives the Way, in life alone he knows. With sword at ease, I ride the wind, a carefree drunkard of the blade.”

The Daoist’s laughter gradually faded into the distance.

...

Dark clouds veiled the moon. On the county road outside the Zhang residence, two figures crept along in the night.

“Brother Zhu, can we still go back to Changning County Office?” Ma Xiaosi asked nervously.

“Go back? Are you mad? Didn’t you see Fatty Xia is now calling that kid brother and planning to drink flower wine with him? If we go back, what good can we expect?” Zhu Ke replied coldly.

“So what do we do?” Ma Xiaosi whimpered.

“What are you afraid of? The world is wide—surely there’s room for the two of us somewhere,” Zhu Ke snapped.

“I’ll just follow you, Brother Zhu—wherever you go, I’ll go,” Ma Xiaosi pledged.

“A gentleman waits ten years to take his revenge. Let’s go,” Zhu Ke said darkly.

The two quickened their pace, leaving the county office behind and heading north.

...

Clearing away distractions to see the moon, in the rear garden of the Zhang residence.

Some, unable to hold their wine, had gone off to rest; others feasted on in the front hall. Song Mo sat alone, cross-legged in the stone pavilion.

As time passed and the waning moon drifted westward, the voices dwindled, lest they disturb the bridal chamber.

Now and then, a few drunken revelers began a game of wine dice.

“Brothers together—here’s to five-of-a-kind…”

“You lost! Drink up, drink up!”

Song Mo sat with his eyes closed. He felt as if the wind, flowers, and grass in the garden had come alive, reaching out to him, enveloping him.

Had anyone been present, they would surely have been frightened out of their wits by the scene within the garden.

Moonlight shimmered like water; within the pavilion, the shadows of water plants intertwined. From the flowers and grass, sparks of green vitality drifted toward Song Mo’s body. Above him, the spectral form of a Qiongqi beast stood proud and fierce.

The wound that had been pierced by the scalpel’s broken blade drew in the green lights like fireflies, slowly healing, the scab falling away to reveal tender new skin.

A breeze stirred, and fallen flowers and leaves whirled across the ground.

In a single night, the whole garden’s flowers and grass withered and turned yellow.