15 The Joy of Intoxication

Qin Chuan did not immediately perceive the myriad mysteries of this realm; instead, he lay on the worn, straw-woven bed, staring absentmindedly at the damp and moldy ceiling. Once again, he had entered a world of transformation, unsure what fate awaited him here. Outside the window, a plump bird fluttered in, carrying spring mud in its beak. It landed on the windowsill, peering inside with a surprisingly human look of confusion, as if wondering how the hut had changed hands.

The bird gave its head a foolish shake and, after a moment’s hesitation, spread its wings and flew away.

Before it had gone far, the creaky wooden door swung open—a sound that grated on the nerves. The visitor was the old man, and perched on his left shoulder was none other than the fat bird from before. He removed his bamboo hat and hung it aside, glancing at the man on the bed with surprise. “Young sir, you’re awake?”

“Thank you for saving me, Elder. I shall repay your kindness in due time!” Qin Chuan straightened his clothes, clasped his fists, and bowed deeply.

“Haha, no need for such formality. I did not expect any thanks; it was nothing but a small effort,” the old man replied kindly, inviting Qin Chuan to sit. His face was gentle, his brows shaggy and hair white, yet his black and white beard was scrupulously clean.

Once Qin Chuan was settled, the old man found a wooden stool in the corner and busied himself with his work, speaking casually. “I am but a common man, an ordinary herbalist within this realm.”

He spoke without intent, yet Qin Chuan listened keenly. The words, light as air, struck him with sudden realization. Sensing his own lapse, Qin Chuan apologized, silently recited a calming mantra, and soothed his restless thoughts.

These words were indeed startling. What was this realm? A place beyond the dust of the cosmos, a land of illusions. If one day a figure from a painting opened their eyes and told you, “I am but a character in a painting,” your thoughts would mirror Qin Chuan’s own.

“Oh? Your reaction suggests you believe I do not know where we are?” the old man said, grinding seven or eight stalks of golden grass in a mortar, glancing at Qin Chuan. For a moment, surprise flickered in his eyes as they met Qin Chuan’s cool, emotionless gaze.

“I was ignorant, Elder. How did you know this world is a realm of transformation?” Qin Chuan asked.

“You wily rascal! Haha,” the old man laughed, seeing Qin Chuan shift the conversation. “Stay here a few days and you’ll understand.”

“Now, take this Golden Mustard Spring Mud Pill,” he said, molding the crushed golden grass and spring mud brought by the fat bird into a ball, holding it out for Qin Chuan.

Qin Chuan looked at the earthy pill, half the size of his fist, and felt a chill in his throat and stomach. He was about to refuse, but before he could speak, the old man’s kindly face turned stern.

“If you dare not eat it, I fear you’ll not live much longer!” He slapped the wooden table, sending dust flying.

“Eat it! Elder’s medicines are unrivaled. I will take it, shameless as I am,” Qin Chuan replied, picking up the pill with both hands, closing his eyes, and swallowing it in one gulp.

To his surprise, the expected earthy taste never came. Instead, it dissolved into a refreshing liquid, swirling into the energy vortex of his core.

“How is it? Do you doubt the pills of the Wayfarer? With this half-jar of Autumn Water Brew, you won’t ascend to heaven in a single step, but losing three years of life is assured!”

Having said this, he patted the half-jar of wine at his waist, shaking it proudly.

“Elder, I am still your guest, after all. There should be some hospitality,” Qin Chuan said, his eyes lighting up with joy. He recalled his childhood in the small village, where everyone knew the Qin family’s youngest son was fond of wine, often persuading the neighbor, Da Zhuang, to steal the old wine from the cellar.

Those days were gone, but his love of drink remained. After more than a year of wandering, half a year in Qingyang Mountain, nearly two years without a drop of wine had left him yearning.

“Do you know why this wine is called Autumn Water Brew?” the old man asked.

“I don’t know, just give it to me!” Seeing the wine, Qin Chuan forgot all his troubles, caring little for what autumn or spring water might mean.

“Very well, take it,” the old man said, much to Qin Chuan’s delight.

Contrary to his expectations, the old man brought out two walnut-sized wooden cups and leisurely poured the wine, his calm demeanor enough to make one grind their teeth.

“Drink and listen to its tale,” he said.

Outside, the bamboo glistened with dew, clouds drifted lazily, and birds sang with clarity.

Together, they drank the fine brew, laughed, and basked in the sunlight.

“There is autumn within this realm. The wine takes its name from this season, yet it is not something I could brew myself,” the old man continued.

“Autumn winds are usually fierce, but there exists a grass called Autumn Lantern, which defies the season, blooming when all other plants wither.”

“The Autumn Lantern flower forms a cup. If fortunate, autumn water falls into the flower’s cup and remains. Over time, by the next year, this water becomes Autumn Water Brew.”

“Don’t think you can simply pour water into the flower yourself. If it were so easy, would it fall to you to try? Only spring water, naturally splashed into the flower’s cup, can make true Autumn Water Brew. The rest are all poisonous, a single drop will rot the flesh.”

Thus they bantered and drank, emptying half the jar by dusk.

The golden light baked the western hills, steaming a tapestry of clouds.

“Well done, lad, you’ve got spirit!” The old man glanced disdainfully at the drunk fat bird in his arms, contemplating whether to add it to tonight’s supper.

“And you’re no slouch yourself, Elder!” Qin Chuan replied, then reclined and fell asleep.

Seeing his flushed cheeks, the old man suspected nothing, chuckled, and left the hut.

Turning left and right, he soon made his way through flower clusters and tangled weeds to another hut, much better equipped, dominated by a clay furnace.

Perhaps the heavens themselves were drunk, for at midnight, a light rain drifted through the open window, landing on Qin Chuan’s face and sending a chill through him, though he soon slipped back into sleep.

By rights, at the first stage of Qi Refining, though not truly an immortal cultivator, he should no longer be like ordinary folk—how could the night cold bother him?

Sleeping sprawled like a lazy pig, he was unaware of such oddities.

In the other hut, the old man stayed awake, pouring the herbs gathered over the past two days into the clay furnace, muttering incantations as he worked. His face was solemn, but when he thought of Qin Chuan, a mischievous smile crept onto his lips.

At dawn, the rain stopped and the mist dispersed, leaving the sky fresh and blue as porcelain.

Qin Chuan blinked his sleepy eyes, sitting groggily on the bed, unable for a moment to remember where he was, thanks to the Autumn Water Brew.

The Wayfarer—so the old man was known—carried a wooden basin, pushing open the door. Seeing Qin Chuan lazily sitting on the straw bed, he shook his head and scolded with a smile.

“Young sir, your drinking tolerance is lacking, not even as good as this old man.” He set the basin of clear water on the table, preparing willow branch, green salt, and peach blossom paste.

“It’s early spring, cold and damp. If you don’t wash soon, the water will be too chilly to enjoy.”

Rubbing his brows, Qin Chuan was about to say his cultivation made such rituals unnecessary, for a surge of spiritual energy was enough. Yet before he could speak, his face darkened.

The energy vortex in his core spun on, ignoring his attempts to command it.

“Haha, Qin Chuan truly is a fool!” he mocked himself, thanked the old man, and wasted no more time. He took the slender willow branch and chewed it into fibers, extracting the mildly bitter green juice.

Dipping some green salt, he swished the willow around his mouth, clearing the lingering taste of wine. He ground the peach blossom paste in his palm until it became a fine, powdery foam, then applied it to forehead, cheeks, and chin.

All grime and fatigue vanished with a handful of clear water. He washed his hair, tying it into a neat topknot.

“Elder, to continue yesterday’s question: how did you know this world is a realm of transformation? May I see for myself?” he asked, stepping outside to find the Wayfarer reclining in a tilted chair, puffing on a dry pipe. Qin Chuan bowed deeply.

“Tut tut, I couldn’t tell yesterday. You’re quite the handsome young rascal, almost as spirited as I was in my youth.”

“How old are you?” the old man asked, pausing for a moment and seeming to dodge Qin Chuan’s question.

“I am eighteen. In three or five months, I’ll be nineteen.”

“Not bad, not bad. Do you know how many years that medicine yesterday shortened your life?” the old man asked.

“Uh, you said three years,” Qin Chuan replied, pressing his hand to his forehead, thinking it was a slip of the tongue but now realizing it was true, his heart uneasy.

“Correct. After taking that pill, subtract another five years!” The old man stopped talking, took out a pitch-black medicine ball, and tossed it at Qin Chuan’s feet, ignoring his outstretched hand.

Faced with such an eccentric, Qin Chuan could only laugh helplessly, bending to pick up the pill and examining it carefully. A breeze brought a faint fragrance to his nose.

“This is the Six-Flavored Earth Black Pill, made from silkworm dung, insect tea, sparrow su, five-spirit resin, dragon musk, and white chicken droppings. It’s potent—find a quiet place to digest it properly!” the old man said with a mischievous grin.

Qin Chuan, versed in herbal lore, was initially curious about the pill, but upon hearing the ingredients, his face soured, as if life held no joy.

“Don’t go tossing this pill away in some secluded spot. I spent the whole night making it!” the old man chided.

Now, even Qin Chuan was surprised. The Wayfarer looked like no cultivator, yet he could stay awake all night and remain energetic, while Qin Chuan himself felt drowsy and cold in spring.

Since gaining cultivation, he had never feared the elements, but upon entering this realm, he found himself unable to withstand the chill of spring.