The buzz of his first victory was a pleasant hum in Ye Xingliu's veins, a counterpoint to the weary ache in his muscles. The dormitory was quiet, most disciples already asleep or meditating to prepare for the next day's matches. A single oil lamp cast a warm, dancing light over the small table in his corner.
Feng Shui'er had left him a clay pitcher of water. "For the champion," she'd said with a wink before slipping away.
The gesture was kind, but as Ye Xingliu reached for it, his Life Sensing, which had become as natural as breathing, flared with a silent, sharp alarm.
The water itself was pure. But the rim of the pitcher… there was a residue. A faint, sickly-sweet chemical scent, invisible to the eye, that clung to the glaze. It was a dissonant note in the room's simple symphony, a thread of malice woven into an act of kindness. Someone had dipped their finger in poison and traced it along the lip.
He didn't need to guess who. Zhao Ba's fury had been a palpable force in the arena.
"Boss?" Little Comet whispered, its light dim with concern as it peeked from his pocket. "That water smells… wrong. Like a flower that wants to eat you."
"I know," Ye Xingliu murmured, his star-flecked eyes hard. It was a coward's move. Not a challenge to be overcome, but a sabotage to be endured.
As if summoned by the very thought of low tactics, a shadow fell over him. Old Drunkard Huo stood there, having somehow slipped into the locked dormitory without a sound. He looked at the pitcher, then at Ye Xingliu's face, and understood everything without a word being spoken.
"Hmph. The pettiness of small men in a small world," Huo grunted, unslinging his wine gourd. He unstoppered it, and the pungent, familiar scent of cheap, strong liquor filled the air, instantly overwhelming the cloying poison-scent. "They attack your body because they cannot touch your spirit. A common failing."
He thrust the gourd towards Ye Xingliu. "Here. Drink."
Ye Xingliu blinked. "Master Huo, I have to fight tomorrow. Should I really be getting drunk?"
Huo's eyes glinted. "Who said anything about getting drunk? This is medicine. The poison is 'Lulling Root.' Numbness, then paralysis. The alcohol denatures it. Renders it as harmless as water. Mostly." He shoved the gourd into Ye Xingliu's hands. "Now drink. Consider it part of your training in… toxicology."
With a shrug, Ye Xingliu lifted the gourd and took a long, burning swallow. The liquor was rough, scraping down his throat like liquid sandpaper, but it carried a strange, clarifying heat. He could feel it coursing through him, a fiery river meeting the insidious, cool trickle of the poison he'd inadvertently ingested from touching the pitcher. There was a brief, internal sizzle, like water hitting a hot pan, and then the faint, numb tingling on his tongue vanished.
He coughed, handing the gourd back, his eyes watering. "It's… effective."
Huo took a triumphant swig himself, as if toasting his own wisdom. "Of course it is. Wine is the solution to many problems. And when it isn't the solution," he added, his gaze drifting back to the poisoned pitcher, "it at least makes the problems more interesting."
He belched, a sound of profound satisfaction. "See? I told you. Wine saves lives. Now get some rest. Your next opponent has been… incentivized. He will not be tripping into mud."
With that, the old drunkard turned and melted back into the shadows from whence he came, leaving behind the scent of wine and a very important lesson.
Ye Xingliu looked at the innocent-looking water pitcher. Then he picked it up and, without a second thought, poured its contents out the window. The road was fraught with dangers, both obvious and hidden. But it seemed that for every poison, there was an antidote—even if that antidote came in a smelly gourd and tasted like regret.
He lay down on his cot, the warmth of the wine spreading through him, a protective fire against the night's chill and the world's malice. The compass in his pocket felt reassuringly solid.
Mortal Awakening – 10%
He was ready for whatever Round 2 would bring.
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