The secluded terrace pavilion behind the ancient spirit willow was sheltered from the valley breeze by a thick screen of green bamboo.
Dappled afternoon sunlight fell across a low table crafted from fragrant golden sandalwood. There, two clean celadon fine china cups rested beside a slender, pear-shaped flagon. Down in the valley, the distant sounds of laughing children, rolling grain carts, and the steady clang of Tie Shan’s anvil drifted up like the peaceful murmur of a prosperous mountain market.
Gu Qingfeng sat cross-legged on a woven rush mat, his patched green daoist robes pooling around his dusty grass sandals. His hollow bottle gourd lay on the floorboards beside his knee, and his trusty willow twig was propped casually against the porch railing.
The old swordsman rested his forearms on the sandalwood table, squinting with sharp, suspicious gray eyes at the young scholar sitting across from him.
For three hundred years, Gu Qingfeng had dealt with every brand of sect leader the eastern continent had to offer. Whenever a traditional sect grandmaster invited him to sit, there were hidden sword arrays beneath the floorboards, truth-serum incense burning in the bronze fire bowls, and long, tedious monologues demanding that he surrender his Formless Sword manual for the “greater glory of the righteous path.” Whenever a demonic patriarch invited him, there were poisoned wine cups and blood-drinking shadow killers hiding behind the silk curtains.
Yet here sat Lin Xiao in his simple cloud-gray robes, his sleeves rolled up to the forearms, carefully adjusting the flame on a small red-clay charcoal fire bowl.
“Boy,” Gu Qingfeng grunted, tapping a calloused finger against the table. “You’re either the most cunning demon king in ten thousand years. Or you genuinely have no idea who I’m. I bisected the Heavenly Sword Manor’s golden gate with a bamboo broom forty years ago. There are seven righteous sects offering three hundred thousand spirit stones for my head. And you invite me to your private porch like an uncle stopping by for festival cakes?”
Lin Xiao lifted the pear-shaped celadon flagon with steady, elegant fingers.
“Senior Gu,” Lin Xiao replied, his warm deep calm and easygoing, “a man who travels forty miles through pine dust just to smell peach wine isn’t an assassin. An assassin drinks cheap vinegar and worries about his poison needles. A true connoisseur only cares about the vintage. And around here, we judge people by their manners at the table, not by which hypocritical sect put a bounty on their name.”
Lin Xiao tipped the flagon.
A stream of pale emerald liquid cascaded into Gu Qingfeng’s wide-rimmed celadon cup. It caught the amber sunlight with delicate, shimmering jade ripples.
The moment the wine hit the cup, the aroma bloomed.
It wasn’t the aggressive, alcohol-heavy fumes of mortal grain liquor, nor was it the cloying, perfumed musk of royal healing wines. It was the pure, crystal-clear essence of mountain springwater drawn from dark rock underground water beds, blended with the natural sugars of wild spirit peaches harvested at the peak of midsummer, fermented in seasoned red-cedar casks for three unbroken seasons.
The scent cut through forty years of road dust in Gu Qingfeng’s lungs. It smelled of crisp mountain dawn, morning orchard mist, and wild honeycomb.
Gu Qingfeng’s throat bobbed. His fingers twitched, reached out, and closed around the cool celadon cup.
He lifted the wine to his nose, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes.
“No sulfur,” Gu Qingfeng whispered, his voice trembling with genuine disbelief. “No bitter potion-made stabilizing pills. No heavy spirit-iron residue. Just... Water, fruit, cedar, and time.”
He brought the cup to his lips and tipped his head back.
The wine touched his tongue.
Gulp.
Gu Qingfeng froze.
The silky, chilled liquid glided down his very thirsty throat like a ribbon of cool mountain silk. It didn’t burn. It didn’t explode with violent, unruly qi. Instead, it unfurled within his chest like a blooming lotus, releasing waves of gentle, healing medicine coolness that washed through his weary spirit veins.
The seventy years of dry coughing that had plagued his chest since his battle at the Scorched Gorge vanished. The deep, aching weariness in his sword shoulder—the buildup of three hundred years of fighting greedy hypocrites—melted away like spring snow under a warm sun.
Gu Qingfeng slowly lowered the empty cup. He sat frozen for five heartbeats. He stared into the bottom of the glazed fine china where a single emerald drop clung to the celadon.
“Mother of Heaven...” Gu Qingfeng whispered, his leathery face tightening as his chin began to quiver. “Forty years... Forty years of drinking sour ditch wash... Forty years of chewing dried dog meat in abandoned temples... Where was this wine when I was eighty years old?!”
“It was still on the tree,” Lin Xiao answered with a light chuckle. He set down the flagon and reaching for a heavy, lidded brown clay pot resting on the fire bowl. “And drinking on an empty stomach after walking forty miles is bad for the liver. Here. Have some proper sustenance.”
Lin Xiao lifted the heavy clay lid.
WHOOSH.
A cloud of glossy, dark wood steam billowed into the pavilion, carrying an aroma so rich, savory, and intoxicating that Xiao Hei, resting twenty paces away in the bamboo, right away raised his ears and began salivating.
It was Red-Braised Wild Spirit Boar Belly.
Cut into perfect, two-inch cubes, the pork had been simmered for eight slow hours in a dark, glossy glaze of aged fermented soy, crushed mountain star-anise, wild rock sugar, shaved ginger, and a generous splash of the Jade-Dew wine itself. The top layer of skin was semi-clear and jelly-like, the ribbon of rich white fat beneath it trembled with the slightest shaking of the pot. The deep dark wood lean meat at the bottom was so tender it looked ready to dissolve at a touch.
Lin Xiao used a pair of dark bamboo chopsticks to lift two shimmering cubes into a glazed baked-clay bowl, ladling a spoonful of the thick, fragrant dark wood sauce over the top. Then he handed the bowl to the old swordsman.
“Go ahead, Senior,” Lin Xiao encouraged warmly. “Eat while it’s steaming.”
Gu Qingfeng stared at the bowl. He picked up his wooden chopsticks with shaking fingers, clamped them around a cube of braised pork. Then he brought it to his mouth.
He took a bite.
Melt.
There was no pushback. The jelly-like skin and velvety fat dissolved instantly upon his tongue, coating his entire palate in a rich, savory-sweet mix of caramelized rock sugar, warm star-anise, and deeply savory roasted pork essence. The lean meat fell apart into tender, succulent fibers soaked with marrow and sweet wine notes. It needed virtually no chewing before melting into pure, comforting warmth that rolled down his stomach.
“Target’s psychological defenses have suffered total load-bearing collapse,” the Dao Spirit observed in Lin Xiao’s mind. “The combination of high-thickness connective tissue, raw sucrose, and forty-two aromatic volatile compounds has bypassed eighty years of piled up cynical skepticism. Entity is experiencing intense emotional catharsis.”
Gu Qingfeng didn’t speak.
He took a second bite, then swallowed the entire second cube in a single, starving gulp. He scraped the last drop of dark wood sauce from the fine china bowl with his chopsticks, licked the wood clean. Then he set the bowl down with a heavy, trembling thud.
Two large, clear tears formed in the corners of Gu Qingfeng’s squinted eyes. They rolled down his weathered, sun-baked cheeks, dropping softly onto his threadbare green robes.
“Senior?” Lin Xiao asked gently, tilting his head with genuine concern. “Was the star-anise too sharp? I can reduce the spice on the next batch—”
“Shut up, boy,” Gu Qingfeng rasped, his voice cracking into a raw, tearful sob as he wiped his face with the fraying hemp of his sleeve. “Don’t you dare touch that recipe. Don’t you change a single grain of salt.”
The legendary Wandering Sword Saint—the man whose Formless Sword Intent could sever a mountain peak—sniffled loudly. He stared at the empty flagon of Jade-Dew wine with the desperate, respectful gaze of a starving pilgrim beholding the gates of paradise.
“Three hundred years I cultivated the sword,” Gu Qingfeng choked out, resting his trembling forehead against the sandalwood table. “Three hundred years of meditating on frozen cliffs, fasting on pine cones, dodging righteous sect hypocrites, and sleeping in the freezing mud... All for what? To be called a Sword Saint? To have my name written on a moldy monument?!”
He lifted his head, his tear-streaked face streaming pure, pure conviction.
“This,” Gu Qingfeng declared, pointing a shaking finger at the empty clay pot, “is the Dao. Warm pork that melts on the tongue, cold wine that smells of peaches. A clean bench in the shade. Everything else... Everything else is just bloody noise.”
Lin Xiao reached down to the floor, producing a second flagon of Aged Jade-Dew Wine from his spatial storage, already unsealed and chilled to cellar perfection.
With a relaxed, hospitable smile, Lin Xiao poured the pale emerald stream until Gu Qingfeng’s wide celadon cup was filled to the very brim. The fragrant peach vapor rose like a gentle blessing between them.
“Drink up, Senior Gu,” Lin Xiao said softly, raising his own cup in a relaxed toast. “We have forty more flagons in the cellar, twelve more pots of braised pork simmering in the kitchen, and plenty of clean benches in the shade. Take your time. Nobody is going to chase you away.”
Gu Qingfeng looked at the brimming cup, took a long, luxurious sip. Then he let out a deep groan of contentment that seemed to rumble from the very marrow of his old bones.
For the first time in three hundred years, the Wandering Sword Saint felt no urge to pick up his walking staff.