The banquet was at its peak, a noisy sea of silk and forced smiles. At the head table, Young Master Jin Tian was in the middle of a story, his voice ringing with heroic confidence.

“—and so, with the beast cornered in the ravine, knowing my men depended on me, I unsheathed my Golden Sword, Moonlight, and prepared for a single, decisive strike…”

Wei Feng took a sip of wine and nearly grimaced. Dishwater, he thought. From his corner, the sound of Jin Tian’s boasting was hollow and metallic. He didn’t see a hero recounting a great deed, but a peacock puffing up its feathers; each word another plume, colorful and without substance. His gaze drifted to Wei Yao. His niece maintained an expression of polite interest, a marble mask so perfect that only he could see the tiny cracks of boredom in her eyes.

Wei Feng’s ennui was becoming a physical ailment. An itch under his skin, a need to move, to find something—anything—with real flavor. This house wine, served by the general staff, was an insult. Fit only for washing the feet of a corrupt minister.

“Excuse me,” he murmured to no one in particular.

He rose from his seat without any ceremony. A pair of nearby nobles shot him looks of open disapproval, whispering behind their cups. Wei Feng ignored them as if they were part of the furniture.

He began his foraging expedition. His movement through the hall was a counterpoint to the court’s rigidity. While the others remained seated, he wandered. He passed the generals’ table, where the air was thick with the smell of honey-roasted pork and the sound of boisterous laughter. He dodged a group of diplomats from a vassal kingdom, their smiles as fake and tight as the strings of a poorly tuned lute. The shrill music mixed with the buzz of a thousand conversations, creating a cacophony that was starting to give him a headache.

He needed to escape.

His eyes spotted his objective: a side balcony, partially hidden by heavy, crimson velvet curtains. A refuge. A sanctuary. With the determination of a thirsty man searching for an oasis, he slipped between the drapes and stepped out into the cool night air. The breeze was a blessed relief against his skin. The noise from the banquet instantly faded, becoming a dull, distant hum.

The balcony was not empty.

Leaning against the marble balustrade, his back to him, stood a man. He was notably plump, dressed in brightly colored silk robes that seemed to celebrate his own circumference. His face was flushed with alcohol, and he wore an expression of pure contentment as he gazed at the moonlit gardens. In his hand, he held not a cup, but an exquisite wine gourd of a jade-green color.

The man seemed to sense his presence. He turned, and upon seeing Wei Feng, his eyes lit up with the recognition of a comrade-in-arms. Without a word, he raised his gourd in a silent toast. Wei Feng responded by lifting his own jug.

“Ah, a kindred spirit,” the fat man said, his voice a cheerful, deep rumble. “Someone else who knows the house wine tastes like the tears of a repentant bureaucrat.”

Wei Feng let out a genuine laugh, the first of the night. “Worse. It tastes like the ambitions of a finance minister. Weak, sour, and with an aftertaste that lasts for days.”

The fat man let out a guffaw that shook his considerable belly. “Ha! Well said, my friend, well said! Allow me to introduce myself. Meng, of the Caravan of a Hundred Curiosities, though my friends call me Fatty Meng.”

“Feng,” Wei Feng replied, deliberately omitting his title. “A pleasure to meet a man with an honest palate.”

“The pleasure is mine. Honesty is a rare commodity in this city, almost as rare as a good drink.” Fatty Meng brought the gourd to his lips and took a deep swig. “Plum blossom wine from the southern slopes. Aged for fifty years in sandalwood barrels. Care for a taste?”

He offered the gourd. Wei Feng didn’t hesitate. He took a sip, letting the liquid spread across his tongue. He closed his eyes. The flavor was complex: sweet at first, with a floral hint, followed by a spicy warmth and a long, smooth finish.

“Fifty-three years, I’d say,” he corrected softly, handing the gourd back. “The wood flavor is perfectly integrated; it doesn’t overpower the fruit. A masterpiece.”

Fatty Meng’s eyes went wide. “By the thousand treasures! You’re a true connoisseur! No one has ever guessed the age with such precision!” He was genuinely impressed and delighted. “Now I must try yours!”

Wei Feng offered him his own jug. Meng took a swig, far less delicately, and made a sound of appreciation.

“Black Dragon Wine from the Northern Frontier. Strong. Bold. Almost aggressive. It tastes of winter and battles. It’s not elegant, but it has character. Like a scarred general. I like it.”

“A gift,” Wei Feng said with a smile. “From an admirer with good connections.”

“The best kind of gifts!” Meng laughed. “Tell me, Feng, what brings you to this forgotten corner? Were you also fleeing the peacock’s story?”

“Was that a story? I thought it was the sound of a man trying to convince himself of his own importance. I was bored. And the wine was dreadful.”

“Couldn’t agree more! And the food… did you try this morning’s lotus pastries? A disappointment! The dough was too dry. A true lotus pastry should melt in your mouth, don’t you think?”

“You’re mistaken,” Wei Feng retorted, his tone serious. “The dough was fine. The problem was the filling: it lacked the fragrance of osmanthus. A novice’s mistake.”

“I’m mistaken?” Meng huffed, feigning indignation. “My friend, I’ve eaten lotus pastries from the capital to the southern kingdoms! I know what I’m talking about!”

Thus began a long and passionate argument. They went from wine to pastries; from pastries to the proper way to roast a duck—Meng championing a spiced honey glaze, while Feng insisted on a simple salt-and-herb rub so as not to overshadow the meat’s flavor—and from there to the tragedy of poorly cooked oysters. They spoke the same language, a dialect of flavors, textures, and pleasures that no one else at that banquet would understand. Wei Feng felt, for the first time in a long while, relaxed. He was speaking with an equal.

After sharing several rounds from their respective wines, Fatty Meng leaned against the balustrade, his face flushed from alcohol and camaraderie. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone.

“Friend Feng, it has been a true pleasure. I see you are a connoisseur, a man who understands the real value of things. All that pageantry in there…” he said, jerking a thumb toward the hall, “it’s not for us. But… I’ve heard something that might interest a palate like yours.”

Wei Feng raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?”

“My Caravan of a Hundred Curiosities,” Meng whispered, “is hosting a secret auction in three weeks. For select clients only. The main lots are… extraordinary. We’re talking about fragments of Decrees from the ancient Twilight Dynasty, recovered from newly discovered ruins.”

Wei Feng mentally shrugged. Broken decrees? Too much work to repair. Useless.

“We also have a sword forged from the heart of a fallen star,” Meng continued, his eyes gleaming. “It weeps real blood when it nears a demon.”

Magical swords? Too noisy. And messy. I’d rather have a good kitchen knife.

“And the main event for cultivators,” Meng said, leaning even closer, “is the petrified egg of a Void Manticore! A legendary beast! Imagine what could hatch from it!”

Eggs? I prefer salted duck eggs. Much tastier.

Just as Wei Feng was about to yawn and ask Meng for another drink, his new friend added the final detail, almost as an afterthought. “And of course, there’s a lot most cultivators will ignore, but it’s the real reason I organized this whole thing. A few jugs of wine, perfectly sealed with wax and talismans, found in those same ruins. The scholars say they’re from the Forgotten Era. The liquor… it could be over a thousand years old. They say drinking it can sharpen the mind to comprehend the Dao and—”

Meng couldn’t finish his sentence.

The transformation was instant and total. Wei Feng’s mask of laziness and disinterest vanished like smoke. His body, previously relaxed and slouched, tensed. He straightened and leaned forward, his movement swift and precise, like a striking snake. His eyes, normally glassy and distant, now burned with a predatory intensity that made even Fatty Meng take a step back. It was the look of a dragon that had just scented the greatest treasure in the world.

“Forget all that crap about the Dao,” Wei Feng said, his voice a low, serious whisper that cut through the night. “A thousand years? Sealed in ruins?”

The flavor, his mind, his soul, screamed. The aroma of time and earth. The complexity of a lost age. The tears of a forgotten sun. A thousand years of history in a single sip! I have to taste it!

Fatty Meng stared, dumbfounded for a second, then let out the biggest, most genuine laugh of the entire night. A thunderous roar that echoed across the balcony!

“HA, HA, HA! I knew it! I knew you were one of mine!” he bellowed, slapping the balustrade with his chubby hand. “A man of true priorities! To hell with decrees and eggs! The wine! That’s what matters! Of course you must come, friend Feng! It will be an honor to have a true connoisseur there!”

He rummaged inside his bulky robe and pulled out a rectangular card of polished silver. It was engraved with intricate patterns and felt cool to the touch. He handed it to Wei Feng.

“My personal invitation.”

Wei Feng took the invitation with a slowness and reverence he hadn’t even shown his own brother, the Emperor. He held it as if it were a sacred artifact.

“Meng,” he said, his voice filled with an uncharacteristic sincerity, “thank you.”

His mind was no longer at the banquet. It was lost in a dream of ancient flavors, of complex aromas, of an elixir that contained the very essence of time. Just at that moment of reverie, the hum of the banquet shattered. A sudden silence, followed by an authoritative voice that cut through the air.

Instinctively, they both turned to look through the curtains and into the main hall.

The scene was frozen at two points of tension.

The Elder Sword Master, Lin Jian, had risen to his feet beside the main table, his face solemn, his hands clasped behind his back. Clearly, he was about to make an important announcement.

At the same time, and with almost perfect timing, Young Master Jin Tian, standing before Wei Yao with a triumphant smile, had just unwrapped an exquisitely packaged gift, revealing a jade box that glowed with an internal light.