A day had passed. A day since the confrontation with the Emperor. A day since the first, and strangely intimate, "lesson" from Wei Yao. In Prince Wei Feng's chambers, an atmosphere of lazy, cultured satisfaction reigned.
He was lounging on a worn velvet divan, an amber glass of wine in one hand and a book of classic poetry in the other. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the wooden lattices, illuminating the motes of dust dancing in the air. He read a verse, frowned in disgust, and sighed with a flair that would have shamed a stage actor.
"The lonely moon weeps in the lotus pond, its reflection broken like my heart by your absence..." he recited to himself.
Garbage, he thought. He snapped the book shut with disdain and used it as a coaster, an offense that would have given the Grand Scholar of the academy a heart attack. Sighs at the moon, tears for a withered flower… Why were famous poets so unbearably boring? If they wanted to write about true, heart-wrenching beauty, they would write an ode to the perfectly crispy skin of a roasted piglet. Or to the reverent silence that follows the uncorking of a hundred-year-old bottle of wine. That was poetry. The rest was just sentimental noise.
He was in a state of calm, a peaceful interlude. The chaos of the banquet had passed. His niece's lesson had been… stimulating. The Empress's celebratory banquet was in two days. For now, there was nothing left to do but wait, drink, and enjoy the rare pleasure of silence.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
The pounding on his door was not the discreet, respectful tapping of a servant. It was the frantic, heavy fist of a desperate man, as if a dragon were hot on his heels.
Wei Feng sighed, the moment of peace shattered.
"I am in deep meditation on the ephemeral nature of existence and the unfathomable void of the Dao," he shouted irritably toward the door. "Come back next year. Or the one after."
"FRIEND FENG!" a voice boomed from the other side, breathless and panicked. "It's me, Meng! Fat Meng! Open up, for the love of the thousand treasures, it's a matter of life and death!"
Wei Feng arched an eyebrow. The only life-or-death emergency Fat Meng ever knew was running out of wine. That, at least, was interesting. With the resignation of a philosopher interrupted mid-revelation, he rose from the divan.
He opened the door with a lazy motion. Fat Meng burst in like a gust of wind, a typhoon of sweaty silk and pure anxiety. His usually ruddy face was pale, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead and triple chin. He paced the room like a caged bear, his hands flailing.
In one of those anxious hands, however, he held a dark clay wine bottle, sealed with red wax and exquisitely designed. A detail Wei Feng noticed immediately.
"Meng, my dear friend," Wei Feng said, his gaze fixed on the bottle, not Meng's face. His voice was calm, almost mocking. "A thirst emergency? A noble cause, no doubt. Come in, come in. Though you could have given some warning. You nearly interrupted my all-important post-lunch nap, a vital part of my cultivation regimen."
Fat Meng stopped his frantic pacing and stared at him as if he'd gone mad.
"Forget the nap! Forget cultivation! The world has gone insane, Feng! Have you not left your chambers? Haven't you heard?"
"I try not to. The outside world is noisy and full of people with ambitions. It's exhausting," Wei Feng replied, pouring himself another glass of the wine he already had open.
"The Empress's banquet edict!" Meng exclaimed, resuming his pacing. "In two days! It's not a local celebration, it's a declaration of power! The entire nobility of the continent, the old monsters from the sects who haven't left their mountains in fifty years, the wealthiest merchants of the Seven Rivers... they are all flocking to the capital like moths to a flame!"
Wei Feng took a sip of wine and shrugged. "More people, more noise. A traffic nuisance, I suppose. I do hope the imperial kitchens are up to the challenge. It would be a national disgrace if they ran out of Peking duck."
Meng stopped again, pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked at his friend with utter desperation. "You don't understand! This isn't about the duck! It's about the sharks!"
"Sharks? Meng, we've discussed this. Shark fin soup is a vulgar dish. The texture is rubbery, and it has no flavor of its own. It's for barbarians and the nouveau riche."
"Not those sharks, you idiot!" Meng shouted, his panic overriding his usual good humor. "My partners! The sharks who back the Hundred Curiosities Caravan! The invisible men whose ships transport my treasures! I'm the master of ceremonies, the smiling face who gets the permits and charms clients with wine and good stories! But they... they are the ones who put up the money and collect the profits. And they are not patient men."
He moved closer to Wei Feng, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, terrified whisper. "They see an opportunity. A concentration of power and wealth in one place that won't happen again in a century. They believe your niece's duel and your sister-in-law's banquet have created the perfect market."
Wei Feng looked at him, his bored expression unchanged. "And?"
Fat Meng took a deep breath, as if bracing for a blow. Finally, he dropped the bombshell.
"They've made a decision. They want to capitalize on the influx of power and wealth before it scatters. They've moved the entire auction up."
He paused dramatically, his bulging eyes fixed on Wei Feng.
"It's not in three weeks, Feng. It's tomorrow night."
Meng delivered the last line with an expression of absolute panic, taking a step back, expecting his friend to explode with fury over the change of plans, the lack of time to prepare, and the impossible competition.
Wei Feng stood still. Motionless. Silence filled the room, broken only by Fat Meng's ragged breathing. Wei Feng's face was a blank mask, his eyes fixed on the distance, processing the news. Meng braced for the outburst, the shouting, the curses.
And then, the unexpected happened.
A slow, radiant smile of pure, childlike happiness spread across Wei Feng's face. Then, he began to laugh.
It wasn't a chuckle or a guffaw. It was a roar of joy, an explosion of mirth so deep, so genuine, so resonant that it made the empty bottles on the shelves vibrate. He threw himself back on his divan, his body shaking with laughter, tears of pure bliss forming in the corners of his eyes.
Fat Meng was dumbfounded. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
"Friend Feng..." he stammered, completely bewildered. "Have you gone mad? Has the wine finally melted your brain? Didn't you hear me?" He waved his hands in the air. "It's TOMORROW! Tomorrow night! We have no time to raise funds! No time to plan! The competition will be a massacre! Young Master Jin will be there, furious and eager to spend to save face! The delegates from the Purifying Flame Domain have pits of gold! We don't stand a chance!"
Wei Feng wiped a tear of laughter from his eye with the back of his hand, trying to catch his breath. "Meng… my dear, wonderful, pessimistic friend… can you truly not see it?" He sat up, his eyes shining with an almost religious fervor. "This isn't bad news! It's a blessing from the heavens! It's a miracle wrapped in panic and sweat!"
His mind was an explosion of pure euphoria.
Tomorrow! TOMORROW! I won't have to endure three weeks of agonizing, torturous waiting! Three weeks of imagining the taste, dreaming of the aroma, driving myself mad with anticipation! The taste of time! The essence of a lost era! The nectar of forgotten gods distilled in a single jar! It will be in my cup tomorrow night!
He looked at Fat Meng, who was still panting and staring at him in horror.
This fat man is no simple merchant! He is a saint! A Bodhisattva of Pleasure! A messenger of the Dao sent directly to ease my existential suffering! His value to the world has just far surpassed that of my useless brother, the Emperor!
With surprising agility, he stood up and approached Meng. He placed his hands on the merchant's broad, sweaty shoulders and looked at him with a reverence and gratitude that would have been fitting for a savior god.
"Fat Meng," he said, his voice solemn and filled with overwhelming emotion. "You are not just a friend. You are a true brother. A man of impeccable taste, of important news, and, as I now see with blinding clarity, a bearer of miracles. This… this calls for a celebration."
With a renewed energy he hadn't shown in years, Wei Feng snatched the precious bottle from a still-baffled Meng's hand. With an expert flick of his thumb, he popped the wax seal. The aroma that was released—rich, fruity, with notes of oak and earth—filled the room. Ignoring his own cups, he grabbed two empty soup bowls from a nearby table, blew the dust off one of them, and poured two huge, generous portions.
He passed a bowl to his friend. "Drink, my benefactor. Drink."
Fat Meng took the bowl, still stunned. "But what about the auction? The money?"
Wei Feng raised his bowl in a toast. His face was radiant, that of a man who has glimpsed paradise.
"To greedy partners and impatient sharks!" he proclaimed, his voice echoing in the room. "To empresses who achieve sovereignty and the banquets that set it all in motion!" He paused, his gaze growing intense and dreamy. "And to ancient wines that, thanks to the gods of hedonism, arrive much, much sooner than expected! Cheers, my friend!"
The bowls clinked together, the sound of ceramic ringing out. Wei Feng drank deeply, closing his eyes in ecstasy as the exquisite wine coated his palate. His mind was no longer on politics, or duels, or even lessons for his niece.
He was completely focused. His entire soul, every fiber of his being, was aimed at a single, sacred objective: the liquid treasure he would taste the next day. His excitement was a palpable force in the room, a silent promise that he would do anything, face any foe, and commit any crime to get that wine.