The Wine Master of Chaisang

The Wine Master of Chaisang

The city of Chaisang was a place where secrets were often drowned in liquid gold. On the outskirts of the bustling market, tucked away behind a curtain of weeping willows, sat a small, unnamed tavern. It didn't boast the flashy banners of the "Phoenix Pavilion" or the loud music of the "Golden Dragon Inn." Instead, it offered something far more intoxicating: the scent of fermenting peaches and mountain spring water.

Inside, Baili Dongjun sat cross-legged on a bamboo mat. He looked less like the grandson of the powerful Zhenxi Marquis and more like a scholar who had lost his way. His robes were of fine silk, dyed the color of a clear morning sky, but they were stained with splashes of yeast and water.

He held a small jade cup to his nose, his eyes closed in deep concentration.

"The wind is coming from the north today," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "It’s carrying the chill of the mountains. If the temperature drops by even two degrees, the Spring Breeze vintage will turn sour. A tragedy. A true martial tragedy."

To Dongjun, the art of brewing was not a hobby; it was his cultivation. While his peers in the Baili clan were busy tempering their bones and practicing the "Heavenly Shattering Fist," Dongjun had spent his youth studying the ancient manuals of fermentation. He believed that if a person could brew a wine that touched the soul, they would possess a power greater than any sword.

The quiet of the brewery was not merely silence; it was a delicate balance. But that balance was about to be shattered.

The wooden floorboards groaned. It wasn't the light step of a customer, nor the heavy stomp of a soldier. It was a rhythmic, calculated gait—the step of a man who knew exactly how much weight he carried.

Dongjun didn't look up. "We are closed for the morning. The wine is sleeping."

"A wine that sleeps is a wine that hasn't met the right drinker," a voice replied. It was cold, like ice cracking over a frozen lake.

Dongjun finally opened his eyes. Standing by the vat was a youth who looked like he had walked through a battlefield to get there. His clothes were tattered, his boots were caked in dried mud, and his face was shadowed by a worn straw hat. But it was the object strapped to his back that drew the eye: a long, slender spear wrapped in coarse hemp. Even through the cloth, the weapon radiated a faint, murderous intent.

"I have no money," the stranger said, his hand resting lightly on the shaft of his spear. "But I have traveled three hundred miles because the wind carried the scent of this tavern to the gates of the next province. I want a jar."

Dongjun stood up, dusting off his robes. He looked at the stranger—Sikong Changfeng—and saw the exhaustion in his shoulders, but also the pride in his eyes.

"Three hundred miles for a drink? That's either the sign of a great hero or a complete madman," Dongjun remarked with a playful smirk. He walked over to a sealed earthen jar in the corner, one marked with a small, hand-drawn plum blossom.

He broke the wax seal with a sharp flick of his wrist. Immediately, the room was filled with an aroma so sweet and sharp it seemed to clear the dust from the air itself.

"This is the 'Loneliness of the Moon,'" Dongjun explained, pouring the clear liquid into a rough clay bowl. "It is made from snow gathered at the peak of the mountain and aged in total darkness. Most men can't handle the first sip."

Sikong Changfeng took the bowl. He didn't hesitate. He drained the entire thing in one long, smooth motion.

For a moment, the spearman stood perfectly still. His breath hitched. Then, a faint flush of color returned to his pale cheeks. He looked at the empty bowl, then at the young man in the blue robes.

"I’ve spent my life fighting for scraps of food and a place to sleep," Changfeng said softly, his voice losing some of its edge. "I thought the world was just bitterness. I didn't know it could taste like this."

Dongjun laughed, a bright, genuine sound. "Then your journey wasn't in vain! But listen, spearman. Chaisang is a dangerous place these days. The local gangs and the noble houses are playing a game of chess, and they don't like outsiders—especially ones who carry spears and drink my best wine for free."

Sikong Changfeng tightened the straps of his weapon. "Let them come. I’ve paid for the wine with my appreciation. If they want to disturb your brewery, I’ll pay for the next jar with their blood."

Dongjun leaned back against a wooden pillar, watching the stranger. He knew his grandfather would be furious if he saw him consorting with a wandering rogue, but for the first time in his life, Baili Dongjun felt that the world outside his brewery might be just as interesting as the wine inside it.

The journey of the Young Master of Ale had finally begun.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***