Chapter 72: Innkeeper, More Wine!

Death is final; none can return to life, for no one has ever proven reincarnation, and so this phrase has become a universally accepted truth. No matter what glory a person achieved in life, or how insignificant their deeds, in death all are reduced to a handful of earth.

Qin Yi and his companions gazed at Old Ma, who now lay peacefully in a fine coffin of golden-threaded nanmu wood, as serene as an elder fallen into sleep. For a long time, none spoke.

Qin Yi pondered: all must die, so why do some live such burdensome lives? He thought long and hard, and could only attribute it to obsession. He himself, reborn to cultivate again, sought not to let his spirit gather dust, and partly because Jiang Yao was not an ordinary mortal. Though he knew that even were he a mere commoner, Jiang Yao would choose solitude with him unto old age, Qin Yi had not let her make that choice, but instead stepped once more onto the path of cultivation. Was this not itself a form of obsession?

In the next moment, Qin Yi suddenly laughed at himself—he was but a common man, a mere speck among the countless mortals of the world. People all crave cultivation; to put it kindly, they wish to defy fate, yet at heart, is it not all for the obsession with proving the Dao and attaining immortality, to which they devote their lives?

If that is so, would it not be better to live joyfully, not to spend a lifetime chasing the Dao and immortality, but to devote one’s days to wandering the nine heavens in freedom? To behold all the world’s beauty, to savor its delights and its fair women, to take pleasure in all its wonders. The meaning of life is simply this: to spend one’s days pursuing the desires of the heart—how delightful that would be!

Qin Yi could not say whether Old Ma lived happily, but he remembered, at least, that on the morning Old Ma brought them their horses, he seemed quite happy—that was what Qin Yi believed. Nor did Qin Yi know if Old Ma died with regrets, but now, lying peacefully in the coffin, as if still sleeping, with no kin or ties, yet someone to send him off, Qin Yi felt Old Ma would henceforth know no unhappiness—at least, so he thought.

“Boy, hurry up and take us for a drink! Every time I think of the taste of that purple rice stewed wine, I start craving it!” As Qin Yi was lost in thought, Old Jiang abruptly drew him back.

Qin Yi turned to the eager Old Jiang and said irritably, “What’s the rush? You won’t be left out.” Then he looked to the other man. “Brother Li Mu, I’ll have to trouble you with the rest.”

He did not know whether it was the nature of his profession, but Li Mu’s skin was pale and frail, almost sickly. He was the proprietor of the only coffin shop in Fish-Dragon Fort, Li’s Coffin Shop. His youth was not due to the previous owner dying early from handling coffins, but because the old proprietor was blessed with a late son, and the trade passed down a single line.

All the funeral preparations for Old Ma had been handled by Li Mu himself.

Li Mu smiled. “Go on, I’ll see to everything else. Nothing will go amiss.” He frowned, glancing at Qin Yi and Zhang Chen. “It seems the people from Mao Family Fort and Yan Family Fort are mostly over on Chaoyang Street—you’d better go check it out.”

“Right,” Qin Yi replied calmly, then left the coffin shop with his companions, heading to the heart of Fish-Dragon Fort where the main streets intersected. They saw Chaoyang Street, now packed with people, yet the two factions were clearly separated. One group occupied the far end of the street, their armor all of one style; the other group, near Qin Yi and his friends, had armor in two styles and outnumbered the first group by more than double.

A strip of open ground was left between the two groups, likely a standoff.

They stood at the center of Fish-Dragon Fort, at the junction of several streets.

Qin Yi looked from the head of Chaoyang Street, through the two factions, toward its end, and pointed to a red banner illuminated by the sunset—the characters read “Zhang Family Wine Shop.” “There! That wine shop has the most authentic, most mellow and potent purple rice stewed wine in Fish-Dragon Fort.”

Old Jiang, hearing Qin Yi’s words, could not help but rub his hands in anticipation. Then, with a leap, he soared toward the end of Chaoyang Street, his excited voice trailing behind: “In that case, I’ll go ahead!”

The two factions on Chaoyang Street were locked in confrontation, but suddenly, to their astonishment, they saw an old man in green robes and a bamboo hat floating overhead, passing slowly above them—not riding any device, just drifting by. All watched as the old man floated past, forgetting even their adversaries. Though his appearance was not that of an immortal, the ease with which he drifted above them was real skill—far beyond what their two fort masters could achieve.

“The senior has said he won’t interfere. Our Dao Palace advocates peace within the clan, but some matters cannot be easily resolved, so I too will not intervene,” Jiang Fengnian smiled, then leapt into the air, hands clasped behind him, drifting across Chaoyang Street like an immortal descending to the mortal world.

Qin Yi smiled as he watched Jiang Fengnian float away. “That is as it should be.”

If Old Jiang’s appearance left some doubting his immortality, seeing Jiang Fengnian float overhead left them utterly convinced. Jiang Fengnian was handsome, standing over eight feet tall, his posture regal and commanding—it was as if a deity had descended!

“I believe you can handle these matters. I’ll go see your mother first,” He Anjian said with a smile.

“Alright,” Qin Yi replied. “Go ahead, Grandpa. Mother must be missing you.”

He Anjian, with Old Ma’s former servant, drifted across Chaoyang Street.

This time, the two did not draw much surprise—after Jiang Fengnian’s dazzling display, and given their own unremarkable appearance and bearing, they simply couldn’t compare.

Old Jiang landed in front of Zhang Family Wine Shop, settling himself at a prominent table beneath the rain canopy. He looked inside; only a husband and wife were present, and he was not surprised. He called loudly into the shop: “Innkeeper, bring the wine!”

The innkeeper and his wife, sheltering inside from the unrest outside, heard Old Jiang’s shout and came out to see who could still be in the mood for wine amid such turmoil. Stepping out, they found only their neighbors and an old man in green with a battered black oil-paper umbrella on the table, half-reclining with his feet rudely crossed atop the wine table.

The innkeeper frowned at Old Jiang’s attire and manner—though he looked rough, he was a businessman, so Zhang Chen’s father forced a smile. “Sir, the shop closed early today. Perhaps you could return tomorrow?”

Old Jiang was displeased at this, his temper rising, but after a moment’s thought, he calmed himself and smiled at Zhang Chen’s father. “Innkeeper, you’re worried I don’t have money? No need for that—I’ll pay in full.”

Zhang Chen’s father was unmoved; he’d heard such promises many times before.

Seeing this, Old Jiang’s temper finally began to flare.