Chapter 43: The Abode of the Wine Immortal

“This is my first time making dumplings myself. Honestly, they taste completely different,” Chu Zimu said as he picked up a dumpling shaped like a gold ingot with his chopsticks and brought it to his mouth.

“Tomorrow we return to the Southern Garden in the Western Suburbs. I wonder what the place, rumored by the outside world to be a living hell, will truly be like—and whether, two years from now, we’ll ever get the chance to sit together and make dumplings again.” Ye Qianling had eaten her own homemade dumplings countless times before; the joy of tasting one’s own handiwork was a feeling long past. She glanced toward the window, where night pressed in like ink, and her voice grew hoarse and sorrowful as she thought of their unknown fate.

After she finished speaking, silence fell. All the warmth faded from their faces; the sun always sets, and darkness inevitably arrives. No matter how one tries to flee, there is no escaping the reality that is about to descend.

“Why don’t we make a promise? After we graduate in two years, all of us gather here again to make dumplings. What do you think?” Zhou Xiaojie, who had always been simple-hearted and unscathed by the hardships of life, also felt a twinge of unease at the moment’s heaviness. Yet ever optimistic, he didn’t realize just how dreadful things would soon become, and tried to lift the mood with this suggestion.

“That’s a fine idea. On this day two years from now, we’ll come back here again. No one is allowed to break their word,” Sui Ying’ai, who had been silent, suddenly spoke.

“Agreed.” Jian Suifei, not the usual frivolous rake, looked at each of them in turn, his gaze tinged with sentiment. “We said all of us—if even one is missing, it’s as good as breaking the promise. For the sake of our word, we must strive to live on, no matter what.”

At these words, sorrow clouded every face. The trials awaiting them were enough to make anyone anxious or afraid. Entering the Southern Garden of the Western Suburbs—the so-called nightmare of the world—meant surrendering the right to decide one’s own future.

People often ask which comes first, tomorrow or the future, but here, there is only one answer: the future, for tomorrow never arrives.

“It’s settled, then. In two years, we’ll return. Honestly, with our martial skills, if we put in the effort, there’s every chance we’ll complete our studies. Since this is a time for happiness, let’s not dwell on what’s to come.” Chu Zimu, ever the glutton, never let his chopsticks rest. At this promise, he too felt a pang of unspeakable sadness, and seeing the others’ distress, he tried to console them.

“Truly, the promise is made, but can I say something? By now we’re all quite familiar—could we drop the ‘Brother Zhao’ or ‘Miss Sui’ and so on? Doesn’t it feel too formal?” Ye Qianling, having eaten only four or five dumplings before her appetite faded, couldn’t help but speak her mind.

Lately, Ye Qianling had rarely eaten her fill. Whether she was first punished, left hungry outside the palace gates, or later, with her chest battered and every swallow feeling like fire, or even as she lost track of time from pain-induced fainting—the days came when two or three went by without a single meal and she barely noticed. Once, famed as a glutton in the palace, she would often sneak snacks between sparse meals, her belly rounded from indulgence. Emperor Guangde scolded her for it, but his words went in one ear and out the other; she promised to reform, but never did. Yet now, she found herself unable to eat even a little. With a bitter smile, she forced back tears of frustration.

Si Yan caught this moment exactly, pausing with his chopsticks in hand. He noticed Ye Qianling put hers down early, her head bowed deep in thought, but said nothing.

“We’ll be friends from now on, so those formalities do seem out of place,” Zhao Mengge replied, his mellow voice drifting across. Even he, who usually kept others at bay, found himself drawn in by the warmth of the gathering, picking up dumpling after dumpling.

“Then let’s use our names. Coming here hasn’t been easy, and we’ll be together for so long—addressing each other as ‘Miss’ or ‘Mister’ feels too distant,” Jian Suifei said lightly.

“Shall we have a drink?” Chu Zimu offered his wine flask to Ye Qianling and Sui Ying’ai. “Would either of you like a sip?”

Sui Ying’ai and Ye Qianling, who had been lost in thought, both looked up at the same moment. Sui Ying’ai nodded, held out her cup, and drained it all in one go after it was filled.

Jian Suifei, in the midst of drinking with the others, caught sight of this scene out of the corner of his eye. A brief glimmer lit up in his gaze, gone so quickly it was impossible to seize. How interesting, he thought. Truly interesting.

Ye Qianling had never drunk alcohol before. Though she had campaigned on the battlefield for three years, she always substituted tea for wine when her soldiers drank. Last year, a sixteen-year-old soldier brought a flask of homemade grape wine; as soon as he uncorked it, the fragrance of fruit filled the air.

At the time, Ye Qianling was inspecting the camp’s defenses. The sudden waft of fruit aroma made her pause mid-step. The soldier behind her, thinking she’d spotted some oversight, was about to protest, but she silenced him with a gesture and turned her head, spotting a slight youth clutching a gourd. Realizing what it was, she strolled casually in his direction to confirm her suspicion.

“Yang Qi, is it permitted to drink in the army?” she stopped and looked sternly at the youth.

“Reporting to the Fifth Princess, absolutely not. Drinking in the army is a breach of discipline and punishable by military law,” Yang Qi replied, glaring at the boy with the gourd, who instantly set it aside and stood up to apologize. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought wine into the camp. My mother gave it to me before I enlisted. She died last year in the war, so I just keep it with me, never daring to drink it.”

Hearing these words, Ye Qianling’s smile faded. She walked over, crouched down, and gently tipped up his chin. “You know, I detest being lied to. Tell me the truth, and I’ll be lenient.”

“I really am telling the truth. You can ask the others—they all know.” The boy glanced at his companions, lost for words.

“He’s telling the truth, your highness. His mother died in last year’s war with the state of Li,” another boy of about the same age spoke up.

Ye Qianling forgot about the wine then, gazing at the two boys in silence. Yang Qi, sensing the tension, hurried to ease it. “Princess, it’s my failure as a leader that allowed this. I’ll accept punishment under military law.” He promptly knelt.

Ye Qianling snapped out of her reverie and quickly pulled him up. “No, no, I’ve served fewer years than you, Yang. Such honors are misplaced.”

She turned to the boy and, scratching her head, spoke more sternly: “You know it’s forbidden to drink in the army. Even having wine is an offense. But given the circumstances, I’ll be lenient—twenty strokes. If it happens again, there’ll be no mercy.”

She glanced at the gourd, suppressing her own desire, then told Yang Qi, “Give that other boy ten taels of silver—he’s a man of loyalty.” She leaned in to whisper, “He’s someone worth cultivating.”

Her thoughts drifted. That intoxicating aroma had never left her memory, but because of Emperor Guangde’s rules, she had never tasted wine. The pain and grievance lingered; it was never her fault, yet her mother suffered for it. Perhaps she would spend her whole life trying to atone. They say one drink can wash away a thousand sorrows—perhaps if she drank, she’d stop thinking, stop aching.

“You’re not drinking?” Chu Zimu asked, swirling his cup with a soft laugh.

“I don’t drink. I ate too many dumplings—can’t fit anything else in,” Ye Qianling replied.

“Oh, really?” Chu Zimu nodded, then suddenly recalled, “Wait, you only ate four or five dumplings. That fills you up? If everyone were like you, Night Kingdom wouldn’t need so many farmers.”

“Brother Chu—” Ye Qianling started, but catching sight of Chu Zimu’s indignant expression, she suddenly thought of something. “Zimu, Zimu.”

“Haha, I’ll forgive you this once,” Chu Zimu said cheerfully. He glanced at Si Yan, who was drinking and not watching, and, seeing no reaction, gave a quick nod and stopped teasing.

Sleep eluded them that night.

“I never thought everyone would be so excited to return. Look at those people nearby, their faces all clouded with misery. The seven of us are really quite the odd ones out,” Jian Suifei observed, comparing their lively group to the gloom around them.

“There’s worry, sure, but a life without change is intolerable. Just thinking of the challenges ahead makes my hands itch for action,” Chu Zimu said, nearly bursting with excitement, almost ready to do a cartwheel.

People nearby looked at the seven of them as if they were mad. While everyone else was gripped by fear and distress, these seven acted as if they were about to play a game. Some even wanted to come over and scold them—were they just asking for trouble?

“Let’s keep it down, or someone might get fed up and come after us,” Ye Qianling said with a helpless chuckle, scratching her head.

At this, Si Yan glanced at Ye Qianling’s relaxed demeanor. Only in moments like this could one glimpse that this was once Night Kingdom’s famed Fifth Princess. The next two years, spent alongside her, would be something to anticipate.

“Attention, everyone! You have half an hour to tidy your quarters. Gather at the main hall entrance in half an hour!” called a soldier from the Southern Garden.

“We’ll head back first. See you soon,” Ye Qianling said to the five boys, then turned to leave with Sui Ying’ai for the women’s dormitory.

“Miss Wu,” Si Yan called out to her retreating figure. When she turned, he reminded her, “Don’t forget to apply your medicine.”

“All right.” Ye Qianling nodded without expression, but after turning away, she was overcome with melancholy.