Chapter Thirteen: Three Cups of Wine, One Pot of Tea

"Mr. Zhong, there are three great benefits to this course of action, but only one drawback, which is nothing other than my own future prospects. Yet, for one who has yet to avenge his teacher’s murder, to speak of personal advancement is to betray the grace of my master. Even if I were to succeed, it would be in vain."

"But what if this mysterious faction, driven to desperation, decides to target you directly? Would you not still be in danger? What then?"

"I understand your concerns, Mr. Zhong. My own safety is of little consequence; the fate of the nation is far greater. This hidden power has assassinated the great scholars of our Tang dynasty, clearly intent on shaking the foundations of our court and undermining His Majesty’s sacred mandate. Their wolfish ambition deserves nothing but eradication. My only true worry is for my family—can their safety be guaranteed?"

Li Zisheng bowed slightly to Mr. Zhong, paying his respects. His teacher’s bloody fate was a stark warning; he could not allow his loved ones to be exposed to danger again. Thus, every step he took was as if treading on thin ice—cautious and deliberate.

"You have no need to worry on that account, Zisheng. In fact, from the moment you first arrived at the Huiluo Academy, our Commander had already taken note of you. You are Mr. Cheng Zhongliang’s disciple, and indeed his only remaining direct successor. Since then, the Commander dispatched covert guards to ensure your family’s safety."

Zhong Bai spoke with the calm assurance of one who fully understood the situation, reinforcing his words to show their sincerity.

Upon hearing this, Li Zisheng finally felt a surge of relief. This had been his greatest anxiety; if resolved, he would be more than content. Yet Zhong Bai’s words also carried another warning: should his loyalty ever waver, the protection afforded could just as easily become a noose around his neck. His fears would merely shift from the mysterious faction to Commander Zhang.

Still, as long as his family was safe, it mattered little who held the power.

Li Zisheng knew well that his attachment to the Tang dynasty was tenuous at best. His heart was bound only to his closest kin and his late master.

"Mr. Zhong, I hope you can ensure that this matter is made known throughout the city before tomorrow’s contest," Li Zisheng said, his tone hinting at dismissal.

Mr. Zhong, astute as he was, understood perfectly. He also knew what Li Zisheng would soon face and recognized the need for rest before the coming ordeal. After a few words of advice, Zhong Bai took his leave.

Li Zisheng sat alone in his tent, his expression calm but his eyes resolute. Hardship and turmoil forge strength, teaching a man to protect himself.

He was fully aware that this step would plunge him into a web of intrigue. He had no idea what sort of evidence his late master had entrusted to him, but the fact that so many factions were now focused on him spoke volumes—it must be of vital importance, or it would not have attracted such attention.

Still, he trusted his master, who had cared for him as a son and would never let him stumble into danger lightly. Though the evidence was significant and placed in his keeping, the fact that he was the last of his master’s line had always perplexed him. Why would a man of such virtue and renown as his teacher choose to live out his days in a remote, impoverished village like Tianshui, far from the centers of power?

In the letters his master had left, Li Zisheng could sense pride and honor. Even the Emperor was aware of him. Many of his master’s nephews served as officials at court—why, then, had they turned their backs on their uncle? This thought filled Li Zisheng with anger. He was not a blood relative and could not mourn as family, but those direct descendants had not once returned to the old home.

What worried Li Zisheng even more was that his teacher’s wife had also vanished. It was all an unsolved mystery, a knot that tightened around his heart and left him hopelessly entangled.

It was the first time since coming to Tang that Li Zisheng felt truly powerless. He recalled the fantastical stories of other worlds, where protagonists seemed to have everything at their fingertips; now, in his own predicament, those tales seemed laughable.

"Eight Liang, we have a hard battle ahead of us tomorrow. Go ask Mr. Lin to prepare some meat dishes for tonight, so we can eat well and rest early."

Li Zisheng looked wearily at Eight Liang. The boy saw his master’s exhaustion and wanted to offer comfort, but the words caught in his throat. At eight years old, other children would still be nestled in their mothers’ arms, but his young master was already shouldering such heavy burdens. The thought was enough to make one’s heart ache.

Zhong Bai was not a rash man; he had clearly spoken with General Deng about the situation. That evening, Mr. Lin brought a variety of meat dishes, the finest fare the camp could offer.

Li Zisheng savored the food carefully. Though it was prepared with great care, it could not compare to the culinary marvels of the modern age. Yet, since coming to Tang, this was the best meal he had tasted.

"Eight Liang, do you have brush, ink, paper, and inkstone?" The boy carried a hundred taels of snow-patterned silver for Li Zisheng and, anticipating his needs, had gone to buy writing supplies while Li Zisheng was conversing with Zhong Bai.

The food and wine now inspired Li Zisheng to practice his calligraphy—a pursuit that always brought him peace. He had worn out countless brushes over the years, their shafts deeply indented from constant use.

Eight Liang quickly set out the new writing materials, waiting quietly at his master’s side, grinding the ink.

A sheet of pristine white paper was spread across the table, held flat by two paperweights.

Li Zisheng tested the two new brushes, one more expensive but of excellent quality. He studied the differences with great fondness.

Soon, the ink was ready. Li Zisheng picked up the finer brush, dipped it in ink, and after a moment’s thought, inscribed fourteen bold characters on the white paper:

“A thousand fathoms of red dust, three cups of wine; A grand enterprise for the ages, a single pot of tea.”

This was a saying Li Zisheng had loved in his previous life—a phrase that spoke of the fickleness of the world and the vanity of fame and fortune, transcending worldly concerns with elegance and ease. It was the life he had always yearned for.