The drop of amber wine in Wei Chuan’s palm pulsed with a quiet, internal warmth against the chill of the morning air. Yuan Bo, perched on his shoulder, nudged his ear with a soft, furred paw. “A fine start, little brewer,” the macaque rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly purr. “The first spiteful vintage. What will you do with it?”
Wei Chuan looked from the shimmering liquid to the distant, imposing peaks of the Ziyu Pavilion. He wiped the mud from his face with the back of his hand. His ribs still throbbed where Ren Yu had kicked him, but the ache felt distant. A steady purpose thrummed through him, answering the bitterness that had long defined his labor in the toxic runoff zone.
“I’ll open an alehouse,” Wei Chuan declared, the words strange on his tongue, yet right. “The coziest drinking house in the mortal realm.”
It took nearly all his meager savings, accumulated coin by painful coin from endless hours of herb-picking in the desolate wastes. He found a derelict, leaning structure at the very edge of the main path, just where the winding dirt track from the mortal settlements met the ascending stone road to the Ziyu Pavilion. It was a forgotten waystation, its timbers warped, its roof caved in, choked by thorny creepers and the dust of neglect.
For weeks, Wei Chuan labored. He patched the roof with salvaged shale tiles, mended the sagging walls with sturdy, if mismatched, planks scavenged from abandoned wagons. He scraped the grime of ages from the solitary, scarred service bar and polished the few tarnished mugs he’d found in a forgotten corner. Yuan Bo, true to his word, offered little physical help, preferring to supervise from a comfortable perch, occasionally tossing an encouraging, half-eaten peach pit in Wei Chuan’s direction. Yet, his mere presence, the quiet, ancient wisdom in his amber eyes, was a comfort Wei Chuan hadn’t realized he desperately craved.
He painted a crude sign, the characters for ‘The Amber Flask’ painstakingly carved into a smooth piece of driftwood. It was only one low-ceilinged room with three wobbly tables, but as he lit the oil lamp on the bar, casting an amber circle across the floorboards, quiet satisfaction settled in his chest.
“We’re open,” he murmured, the words feeling like a prayer.
His first customers arrived a few days later, not from the struggling mortal villages below, but from the opulent heights of the Ziyu Pavilion. Three sect initiates in pristine lavender silk paused before his ramshackle establishment. The leader, a broad-shouldered youth who wore an inner-court sash, sneered at the hand-painted sign.
“Look at this eyesore,” the leader drawled, nudging the boy beside him. “A cripple’s folly, directly on the path to the Ascendant Peaks. Does he think to trap our spirits with cheap swill?”
The scrawnier boy with sharp features snickered. “Perhaps he plans to poison us with his runoff-zone concoctions. A fitting end for such a worm, trampled underfoot.”
Inside, Wei Chuan felt the familiar, subtle shift within his veins. The words, sharper and more concentrated than Ren Yu’s casual kick, stoked the Karmic Distillery along his arms. The air around him thickened, a faint, sweet aroma curling through the dusty room. He watched them cross the threshold, face still, listening to the hot simmer inside his pulse.
“What do you want?” Wei Chuan asked, his voice level. He set an empty clay mug on the wood.
The leader sauntered in, flanked by his two companions. Their sneers carried like smoke through the small space. He planted a palm on the counter, his dyed silk sweeping across the scarred grain. “We want to know who gave you permission to erect this… blight. This path is for cultivators, not common mud-crawlers peddling fermented weeds.”
“It’s a tavern,” Wei Chuan replied, his gaze steady. “For any who seek refreshment.”
“Refreshment?” The skinny youth barked a laugh, high-pitched and grating. “He thinks he can brew! The last time an herb-picker touched anything potent, he ended up in an elder’s stew-pot.”
The third youth crossed his arms, scanning the rough benches with pinched nostrils. That mute disgust, joined with the leader's threats and the skinny boy's mockery, fed the heat behind Wei Chuan's ribs.
Deep in the Karmic Distillery, the cycle quickened. Ren Yu's spite had been an ember; this concentrated venom stoked a full boil. The room filled with the heavy fragrance of crushed plums and dark earth, sweet enough to drown the stench of sulfur clinging to their robes. A shimmering, golden liquid began to gather in the small, clean carafe on the shelf, bubbling gently against the glass.
Just as Jian Li began to raise his voice for another insult, a shadow fell across the doorway. A figure stumbled in, dragging a faint scent of frost and cold steel. She was tall, her movements stiff, her face pale beneath a hood pulled low. Her dark, well-worn robes were simple, devoid of any sect insignia, but the sword hilt peeking from beneath her cloak was clearly of master craftsmanship. Her gaze, pale as river ice, swept the room, resting on the three pavilion robes before drifting toward Wei Chuan.
She leaned heavily on the doorframe, a faint tremor running through her frame. Her hand went to her stomach, a subtle wince crossing her features. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, her balance hitched as though every step tore at an old ruin beneath her ribs.
“A cup,” the swordswoman rasped, her voice dry as gravel. “Anything… to cut the cold.”
The lead initiate scoffed. “Another stray. This ditch collects every beggar on the road. Perhaps he hands out dregs to every broken dog.”
Their mockery shifted toward her, sharpening into a clean, venomous cruelty that surged straight into Wei Chuan's veins. In the carafe, the golden vintage turned luminous, throwing off gentle steam.
Wei Chuan ignored the three youths. He studied the stranger, noting the gray cast to her cheeks and the rigid clamp of her jaw against pain. He tipped a measure of the fresh golden vintage into a clean clay bowl. The liquid shimmered, exuding a fragrance that was both potent and delicate, smelling of sun-kissed orchards and the faint, ironic tang of purified disdain.
“For you,” Wei Chuan said, sliding the cup across the counter. “On the house.”
The woman hesitated, her gray eyes shifting between Wei Chuan and the steam. The pavilion boys laughed behind her. Her knuckles clamped the warm clay, her eyebrows twitching as the sweet vapor reached her nose, and she drained the draught in one swallow.
Color flooded her cheekbones. Her spine snapped straight, the tremor leaving her limbs as the wine tore through blocked channels, scouring the old poison and sealing the ruptures across her dantian with searing heat. The dull fatigue left her features, replaced by fierce clarity.
She set the empty bowl on the boards, her fingers steady. Her gaze fixed on the three initiates, who shrank back as the air dropped ten degrees. Her sleeve whipped back, the frost-edged blade clearing its scabbard with a hiss of bare steel.
“Get out,” she commanded, her voice no longer a whisper, but a resonant, cutting tone that promised violence.
The leader swallowed hard, then forced his chin up. “A beggar’s broth makes a stray bark? You dare pull steel on inner pavilion robes?” He reached toward his sash.
The swordswoman moved before his fingers met the hilt. Her steel carved an arc of pure frost. A gale of sub-zero wind slammed into the three youths, lifting them clean off their boots and hurling them through the open entrance. They struck the dirt road in a heap of tangled limbs and shredded silk. She stepped to the threshold, the tip of her sword pointed down toward the dust.
“Consider this your only warning,” she said, cold slicing through every syllable. “Disturb this door again, and I will crack your cores into dust.” She turned back toward Wei Chuan, sheathing the frost blade with a soft click. Her eyes held his. “I am Luo Yan. I owe you a life debt, Vintner. Until it is settled, I keep your door. No one crosses you under this roof again.”