Chapter 78: Eighty-One: Another Blessing

Eighty-One: Another Blessing

At the back door of Yunshui Pavilion, in a narrow alley.

Ouyang Rong paused, turned to retrace his steps, and caught sight, in the corner of his eye, of several dark shapes lying in filthy water at the alley’s end.

The young man in snow-white robes stopped, pulled a small handful of copper coins from his sleeve, walked over, and squatted before the reeking, shadowy mass.

“Not much money, but enough for two full meals. At the relief camp by the Ten-Li Pavilion on the city’s outskirts, say the name Liu Ashan, and they’ll let you in—twice daily porridge rations.”

“If you’re able-bodied, go dig the new canal—earn some wages. Once Zhe Yiqu is finished, there’ll be many new livelihoods along its banks.”

“If you’re… unable, find a clerk at the relief camp—they’ll send you to Donglin Temple’s Beitian Jiyang Institute. It’s quite good.”

“Also… give up alcohol.”

Ouyang Rong divided the copper coins into four portions, slipped them into the hands of four beggars—some dazed, some numb—then stood and returned the way he came to Yunshui Pavilion.

Three of the beggars, except the one missing a forearm, rose from their knees and bowed their heads to the retreating back of the snow-white-robed youth, then hurried away with smiles.

The remaining one-armed beggar was an unremarkable youth, about twenty-seven or twenty-eight.

His hair hung loose and unkempt; his expression was hidden, but between the grimy, dripping black strands, his lips sagged downward, his upper lip thin.

The youth with the downturned mouth clutched the single coin, rose silently from the ground, his right sleeve hanging empty, and staggered toward the alley’s mouth.

Under the alley’s entrance sunlight, the one-armed beggar did not head toward the city outskirts like the other three. Without hesitation, he turned left, ignoring the disgusted glances of passersby, and walked again into the bustling tavern’s front door, where the sign read “Yunshui Pavilion.”

“Go away, go away.”

The waiter, towel slung over his shoulder, waved him off—then was struck in the face by a handful of copper coins.

“Osmanthus wine.”

The one-armed beggar rasped, head not turning, and stumbled toward the crowded first-floor hall.

“Hey, you filthy beggar—”

The waiter was about to rage, but saw the coins and immediately crouched to gather them, counting aloud while shouting toward the counter, “Two jugs of osmanthus wine, got it!”

The several burly bouncers guarding the entrance saw this and let him pass.

The one-armed youth ignored them, lurched to a long bench in the hall’s corner with an empty seat, shoved himself onto it without ceremony, and collapsed onto it, swaying precariously. Those beside him quickly rose, fearing contamination, muttering curses.

The entire table emptied; patrons left, grumbling.

The filthy, tattered youth paid no mind.

He propped his left arm on his knee, leaned forward, head bowed low, his long, greasy black hair falling past his broken shoes to the floor.

The youth had wandered here, dazed and aimless, from a small island in Yunmeng Marsh, where a peach grove bloomed.

He hadn’t bathed in many days, living in drunken oblivion, sleeping on the streets.

He didn’t even know where he was.

He didn’t know if he’d walked north or south.

But he feared going north…

The wine arrived.

Two jugs of the unmistakable osmanthus wine.

The one-armed youth pressed one jug under his left foot, hugged the other in his right arm, and tilted his head back to drink deeply.

No mistake—it was his “right arm” holding the oval wine jug.

The youth’s right forearm was severed; the sleeve hung empty.

Yet the stub protruding from the sleeve was remarkably agile, capable of many tasks—including now, gripping the large jug and gulping wine with loud, rhythmic swallows.

Clearly, he was long accustomed to it.

Of course, he could no longer hold a sword.

And the remaining stub of the youth’s right arm was indeed tiny—like a withered branch of an old tree, sprouting from the trunk of a thriving adult tree.

Compared to his sturdy left arm, this right stub was exceedingly short.

Clearly, it had been severed in childhood—not a recent wound.

In the western corner of the hall, this scene of the one-armed man drinking with his stump drew curious murmurs from several tea patrons.

But the youth, head tilted back pouring wine, paid no heed, letting the pale yellow, fragrant liquor spill over his mouth and nose, washing his face and hair.

He had lost everything.

His beloved sword was taken.

His mid-grade Qi Refining energy had leaked away.

His proud, lofty face was gone.

The youth now had only the wine pouring down his throat and stomach.

And the drunken, stumbling dreams that would follow.

“Snow Candle… you’re cruel…”

He muttered something, choked on the wine, coughed violently, his stomach suddenly clenched as if gripped by a giant hand—wine spewed out, drenching the table.

The one-armed youth slumped over the table, his filthy face pressed flat against the wood, occasionally spitting out jets of sour fluid like a stranded, dying goldfish.

But this was merely stomach convulsions—a natural physiological reaction.

The diners and tea drinkers around him sneered, ignored the drunken wreck—such men were common daily at Xishi Market near Penglang Ferry.

The drunken youth’s free left hand groped beneath him for the remaining jug of osmanthus wine, but the jug had been kicked over during his coughing fit and rolled far away.

How could a stubby arm reach it?

The youth with the downturned mouth, his cheek pressed to the table, faced toward Chang’an, murmuring:

“Vomiting… wine… my wine… osmanthus wine… Osamother… Osamother brews osmanthus wine…”

His name was Ajie, a swordsman.

From Chang’an, he had journeyed to Yunmeng Sword Marsh.

In a valley filled with blooming peach blossoms, he had challenged others to sword duels.

Before over a hundred sword cultivators from the Ten Dao, he was crushed beneath the foot of a Wu-Yue female cultivator named Snow Candle, publicly humiliated.

Then kicked off the platform like trash, his sword confiscated.

He became the target for this arrogant Yunmeng lady-lord to establish her fame.

In the corner of Yunshui Pavilion’s first-floor hall, the drunken youth, singing a Chang’an folk song, suddenly muttered:

“…Osamother… Osamother brews osmanthus wine… Huh… where’s my sword… where’s my sword…”

…

The young county magistrate, back at the second-floor window, did not know his private stash of copper coins had been exchanged for two jugs of Yunshui Pavilion’s signature osmanthus wine.

He returned to his seat and said to Yan Liulang with solemnity:

“We must expand Beitian Jiyang Institute at Donglin Temple—give it more support from the county office. Longcheng still has many homeless, disabled people.”

Yan Liulang, gazing at the sunset and ancient ferry outside, blinked, then nodded. “Ah, yes, my lord. I’ll contact Donglin Temple.”

“Enough with official matters.”

Ouyang Rong nodded, glanced at the full table of dishes, picked up a pair of chopsticks, and smiled:

“Don’t wait for me—eat, eat quickly, help yourselves.”

Aside from Liu Ashan, who silently and obediently picked up his chopsticks, Yan Liulang and Su Dalang exchanged glances; the former looked utterly defeated:

“My lord, we didn’t wait—we already tasted. It’s… too… too spicy.”

Both swallowed hard.

Their mouths could endure it—but their backsides refused.

Ouyang Rong laughed. “Afraid of a little spice? You two are weak.”

He glanced at the dishes.

He hadn’t expected Yunshui Pavilion to serve some familiar hometown dishes from his memory.

Ouyang Rong sniffed—it seemed passable, looked decent, color, aroma, taste all present.

But this world had no chili peppers; spiciness came from Sichuan pepper, black pepper, Yue pepper, etc.

So this is it?

A mere hint of spice—what’s the fuss?

“Order a few milder dishes then. I’ll take these.”

The young county magistrate, whose taste buds had been dull for two months, shook his head lightly and gave a calm order.

“No need—we’ll order one mildly spicy dish. Brother Lianghan can join us.”

Ouyang Rong shook his head, not even lifting his eyelids, speaking flatly:

“My menu has only extra-spicy and not-spicy. Mildly spicy is just a clever excuse.”

“… ” Su Dalang and Yan Liulang.

Then, under the awe-struck gaze of the three across from him, Ouyang Rong calmly took a bowl of spicy soup, tilted his mouth, and downed it in one gulp.

Hmm, time to show true skill… oh damn!

The smile twisted on his lips froze.

Yan Liulang, Su Dalang, Liu Ashan, and several nearby guests and maids drawn by Ouyang Rong’s bold declaration all stared, curious and attentive, at his suddenly stiffened form.

Ouyang Rong quietly set down the half-full bowl of spicy soup, met their gazes for a moment, and swallowed hard.

His lips trembled slightly, but he forced his twitching, burning mouth to stillness.

He blinked rapidly, his facial muscles rigid, and forced a strained smile, lowering his voice:

“It’s… fine. Not… that bad.”

Then, under the growingly strange stares of the crowd, the young magistrate puffed his cheeks, grabbed more dishes with his chopsticks—but the more he ate, the quieter he grew, until everyone around could hear his sharp, hissing breaths.

Just hearing the voice made the onlookers’ mouths water and their tongues burn with spice.

“Maybe we should just give up…”

Yan Liulang and the others opened their mouths but held back; Ouyang Rong glared at them, and they fell silent.

Ouyang Rong, still skeptical, took a few more bites, but by the end, he couldn’t help turning away, his voice hoarse:

“Someone, bring… bring some cold rice.”

“… ” Everyone.

Ouyang Rong turned back, forcing a smile: “Just order a few dishes with mild spice— for you… for all of you.”

Yan Liulang and Su Dalang and the others nodded quickly and went to call the maidservants for more dishes.

Ouyang Rong slapped away the warm water Yan Liulang eagerly offered, glared at him, then took a sip of cold water from the flask carried by Ashan.

The young county magistrate added another flavor to his unfortunate list of culinary trials, letting out a long sigh.

He looked at the table with a complex expression— damn, the chef at Yunshui Pavilion really knew his craft.

He was finally met with an equal.

Not long after, the new mildly spicy dishes arrived.

Everyone picked up their chopsticks again.

Hmm, this Nanzhong hometown dish… could the cook be from the same place?

Recovering, Ouyang Rong and Yan Liulang and the others ate heartily, secretly thinking.

When tea and meal were done, Ouyang Rong put down his chopsticks first, ready to exchange polite flattery— when his body suddenly stiffened. He glanced left and right, his face clouded with confusion…

But quickly, he masked his expression, picked up his chopsticks again, and stared silently at the half-eaten dish before him.

Yan Liulang and Su Dalang, heads down, ate without noticing.

Only Liu Ashan turned to look at his master, whose behavior seemed odd— but perhaps he was used to Ouyang Rong zoning out during meals, and the stoic man looked away.

Only Ouyang Rong knew he wasn’t daydreaming— he was… torn and troubled.

Because in his mind, a vibrating egg… no, the Blessing Bell had started trembling again.

A new blessing!

And the swirling purple aura, the violent shuddering and moaning of the bell— far more intense than last time.

It must have consumed a lot of merit…

Here it is! Sorry I couldn’t resist writing a bit more— a little late… cough cough, boldly asking for votes. Good night, everyone!

(End of Chapter)