Chapter 147

The Hou Fu hosted a banquet; it was freezing cold, so the feast was set up in the flower pavilion.

Chen Guanlou was an outlying member of the Chen clan; his family had declined since his grandfather's generation, and by his time, people had to think hard just to remember he existed.

But over the past two years, his presence had grown noticeably prominent—simply because he took up a post at the Tianlaomiao.

His father, Chen Chengzong, worked as a jailer at Tianlaomiao; though unimportant and poorly paid, his position at least barely qualified as government service.

He, however, was merely a jail guard—the lowest of low trades.

Tsk tsk…

The guests sighed, chuckled, and laughed at him—but as they watched, it seemed they themselves had become the joke. This Chen Guanlou, who would've thought? He outdid his father, Chen Chengzong, in cunning and money-making—he frequented brothels, drank flower wine, spent several taels of silver per meal, and at least ten taels per night in the brothel.

Damn, a jail guard makes more than a jailer.

Is this a problem with the man—or with the Tianlaomiao?

Money makes you a master; no one dared mock Chen Guanlou for his lowly trade anymore. With money, they'd gladly be jail guards too—only they couldn't bring themselves to beg for it. If Chen Guanlou would just take the initiative and beg them to join him, it wouldn't be impossible.

Oh come on, how could Chen Guanlou be so thoughtless? Brothers fight tigers together; fathers and sons go to battle side by side. When you find a way to make money, why not think of your clan? You've sat silent this long without saying a word.

If they had to ask him outright, everyone held onto their dignity—they simply couldn't bear the shame.

Perfect—today's banquet is a rare chance to gather. They'd all agreed: once the wine flowed, they'd bring it up plainly and demand Chen Guanlou make a statement. When the Grand Lord goes to war, he takes promising young men from the clan to earn military merit and secure their futures. Chen Guanlou got rich—so he can't hoard it all.

Hoarding wealth invites lightning.

Chen Guanlou greeted everyone with laughter and cheer, clearly sensing their newfound warmth toward him—nothing like the cold stares and snubs he'd endured just two years ago when borrowing salt or soy sauce.

"Little Lou, come sit here."

"Oh no, this is the main table—I don't deserve to sit here. I'll sit with Qingge and the others."

"Of course you deserve it. You're a serving official now, no longer a child. Come, sit right here—we'll drink properly later."

"That's inappropriate—all here are elders; I'm just a junior, it's not fitting."

"I say it's fitting—that's final," declared the senior branch's uncle, his word settling it.

Chen Guanlou could no longer refuse and sat at the lower seat—but was immediately pulled to sit at the left hand of the clan's senior uncle. Thus, a junior became second only to the senior uncle—the second most honored position among the seven or eight tables in the pavilion.

This was strange.

Chen Guanlou didn't get carried away by the seat. He wasn't some twenty-year-old fool who floated into the clouds at a few compliments—he'd long passed the age of caring about others' words or attitudes; he only sought peace in life.

He firmly believed: no good deed comes without ulterior motives.

He pondered carefully: what could others possibly want from him?

After much thought, only one word came to mind: money.

Money makes ghosts turn millstones—it seemed someone coveted his Qian Cai.

Did they covet his position?

Pfft!

He had no position to speak of.

He had basic self-awareness—he knew exactly how others saw him. Even if someone admired him, it was only for his money, never for his jail guard status.

If a woman admired him, besides money, she'd need to find him good-looking too.

He sat quietly, waiting for them to make their move, responding to all with stillness. He'd see what game they were playing today.

He accepted every toast offered. Plain yellow wine? They thought they could get him drunk? Let them ask around—he was a thousand cups unshaken.

He raised his cup and toasted each person in turn.

"Uncle, I toast you—may you live a hundred years."

"Uncle, I toast you again. When my father was alive, I was grateful for your care."

"Uncle, let's drink another cup. Today's joyful—so joyful!"

"Come, let's drink three cups for the Grand Lord—may he win swiftly, may the Hou Fu flourish like blooming flowers, rise higher still, and may the Chen clan grow ever stronger."

He could find hundreds, even thousands of reasons to toast. In his past life, he'd been in sales—essentially a threefold companion: drinking, smiling, chatting.

The latter two? He'd occasionally pick them up and half-ass them—enough to handle the two Fan officials. But drinking? He'd never once held back.

He was the most active, the most energetic in the hall—dashing from table to table, toasting one after another. As a junior, he toasted openly, without shame.

The clan's senior uncle and others grew frantic, wanting to pull him aside for a proper talk. But every time they tried, he'd say, "I haven't toasted with Guanqing yet. Uncles and elders, wait a moment—I'll go drink a few with him first, then come back to you."

With wine in him, Chen Guanlou approached Chen Guanqing, shoved the boy beside him aside, draped his arm over Chen Guanqing's shoulder, and grinned, "Qingge, you're doing well, I hear you've been riding high lately—when are you treating us to a wedding feast?"

"Nonsense, don't listen to gossip," Chen Guanqing laughed, denying it instantly—clearly not a word of truth.

Chen Guanlou clinked his cup against his, "My version's different. Qingge, you're the eldest among us—tell us, which virtuous maiden have you set your sights on? When do we meet your future wife?"

"Not a virtuous maiden. I'm past that age—why marry a virgin?" The middle-aged, greasy Chen Guanqing, surprisingly self-aware, grinned with a lewdness that suggested he imagined bare skin at the sight of an arm.

Chen Guanlou's smile faded, his eyes turning cold. "So the rumors are true—you've set your sights on the widow across from my house? Qingge, that's not right."

"What's wrong with that? She lives across from your house—does that make her yours? Chen Guanlou, you're drunk. Don't think a few taels of silver make you superior. I want the widow—what's it to you?"

Chen Guanqing suddenly turned hostile, shouting loudly—everyone in the hall turned to look.

The atmosphere turned instantly awkward, the merriment shattered.

A peacemaker quickly stood up. "Nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong—they're just joking. Keep eating, keep drinking. Later, a few of you come with me to pay respects to the old lady in the back courtyard—Chen Guanlou, will you come too?"

"I'm not worth that kind of attention—I won't go," Chen Guanlou said, smiling and waving him off. He stared fixedly at Chen Guanqing, raised his hand, and slapped his cheek—clearly an insult.

Chen Guanqing flew into rage, raised his hand to block—and suddenly found his arm immobilized. He looked down: his hand was caught in Chen Guanlou's grip.

"Today's a happy day—I don't want to make things ugly. If Qingge is wise enough to step back, pick up this cup, drink with me, and we pretend nothing happened. If you're not willing… I can't guarantee what might happen." Chen Guanlou smiled pleasantly, but every word was a threat.