He tried to hide away what was left of his life, but he could not find quiet. Two old enemies kept coming, aga…
He tried to hide away what was left of his life, but he could not find quiet. Two old enemies kept coming, again and again, dragging him into their troubles. With no choice, Zhang Wanshi pulled his half-dead body up and dealt with whatever they threw at him.
They grew up. Their standing in Mohist Hill rose, their thoughts grew heavier, and they broke the ban on wine as well. On the rare nights the three of them drank together, the bitterness in the cup almost seemed softer.
But people who walk the same road often end up walking the same old ruts.
One day, nobody bothered to remove that unspoken component from the wooden viper's neck anymore. The last two people in the world who still remembered him left him too, abandoning him in dark, cold water.
After that, the world and Hidden Mountain alike, he could finally let them go.
Among the flowers, a jug of wine.
I drink alone, with no one beside me.
I raise my cup to invite the bright moon.
With my shadow, we make three.
Old friends do not return. From then on, every drink was like a blade.
The tremor in his hands, the one that started when he came back, only grew worse. Did he fall into drunkenness because he had lost everything, or did he lose everything inside that drunken haze? He could not tell anymore.
A body gnawed hollow by drink cannot hold ambition, and it cannot hold a carving knife steady either.
He never liked wine. It was simply the only refuge he had left.