Chapter 51: Selling Wine at the Counter (Part 2)

“Wine jars?” Chu Yao glanced at her. “Wu Lang likes drinking?”

It didn’t show.

Wu Lang had a face with a wild edge, but the features were so fine, so pretty, she gave the impression of someone who’d never touched alcohol. Still, in these chaotic times, drinking wasn’t unusual. Men and women, young and old—everyone could throw back a few cups. Some could drink a thousand without falling.

Shen Tang opened her mouth, then stalled.

Wait. How was her tolerance, anyway?

“Wu Lang,” Chu Yao asked, “are you feeling unwell?”

She snapped back. “No. I was just… thinking. I don’t think I can drink much.”

Having your memories stolen was a nuisance like that.

Chu Yao chuckled softly, as if amused by her worry. “Anything taken too far becomes excess. Moderation is best. A small drink lifts the mood; heavy drinking harms the body. Wu Lang is still growing. There’s no shame in being a lightweight.”

Shen Tang stared at him. “…” They were not talking on the same track.

The market had just opened. Carts rolled through, pedestrians flowed like water. Merchants with fixed stalls shouted early, while peddlers with shoulder poles wandered street to street.

Chu Yao led the mule, Moto, to a stop near a familiar wine shop. Not far away sat the butcher stall where he often bought offal. A few people greeted him along the way, and he returned their nods.

“The wine here is decent,” he said.

“I’m not buying wine,” Shen Tang said. “I’m buying jars.”

Only jars, no wine. Strange, but Chu Yao didn’t pry. He took her to a pottery shop nearby—this was where the wine shop bought its jars, and he knew the price well.

Shen Tang looked over the stock and bought ten round-bellied, earth-brown wine jars in one go. The bodies were plump, the bases small as a palm.

Chu Yao finally asked, “Why so many?”

“To sell wine,” Shen Tang said brightly. “Shame these jars aren’t fancier. Otherwise I’d dress it up as premium wine and fleece rich idiots.”

Chu Yao’s brow twitched. “Wu Lang knows how to brew?”

“No. But anything can be tried.”

Chu Yao’s smile froze. “…Tried?”

Before he could decide whether she was serious, Shen Tang bought a long wooden bench, carried it to a street corner, and sat down like she’d done this all her life. She lined the jars up neatly.

Chu Yao knew they were empty.

What exactly was she selling?

Shen Tang pulled a small carving knife from her pouch. The blade danced, quick and sure. In moments she’d carved a big, rough WINE on a wooden board.

With a loud clack, she planted the sign beside the jars.

Passersby started glancing over—first because Moto was huge and dark, then because Shen Tang and Chu Yao looked like an odd pair, and only after that because the stall itself was so bare it felt like an insult.

Some people had watched them leave the pottery shop. They knew the jars were empty. Not even water.

A bored onlooker wandered up. “Little lady, what are you selling?”

“Wine,” Shen Tang said.

He pointed at the jars. “Those are empty.”

“They’re empty right now,” Shen Tang said without blinking. “But if you buy, they’re full. One jar is two jin, three hundred wen. No bargaining.”

The onlooker burst out laughing—sharp, angry laughter. “Three hundred? That’s pricier than aged wine from a real shop. Even if it were cheap, who’s sick enough to pay for air?”

He leaned closer, squinting at her like she might bite. “Little lady, are you having a fit?”

Then he turned to Chu Yao. “Old man, don’t humor your granddaughter’s madness. If you’ve got savings, take her to a pharmacy and get her head checked. Go early—maybe she can still be saved.”

Chu Yao didn’t respond. He didn’t understand Wu Lang either, but he wasn’t stopping her. He wanted to see what she was really selling.

Not medicine in a jar—wine.

Shen Tang rested her chin in her hands, watching the crowd like she was waiting for fish to bite. She was debating whether to shout a sales pitch when a shadow fell over her.

She looked up with Chu Yao—and both of them quietly admitted the newcomer was handsome.

A bright, striking young man in his mid-teens. Sixteen or seventeen, maybe. His clothes were plain and worn, hair tied with a red cord, wrists wrapped with dark strings, straw sandals on his feet. Yet he carried himself with a casual nobility that didn’t fit the fabric. Pale skin, straight teeth—he didn’t look like someone raised by a poor house.

His face was fine enough to sting. The sharp nose, the red lips, and most of all those peach-blossom eyes—smiling even when his mouth didn’t.

Chu Yao glanced at the boy, then at the empty jars.

Sucker, he thought.

The boy asked, “Little lady, how do you sell this wine?”

Shen Tang blinked. “You want to buy?”

“Can’t I?”

“You can, you can.” She straightened. “One jar, two jin, three hundred wen. No bargaining. Young lord still buying?”

The boy pulled a piece of broken silver from his pouch and slapped it onto the bench. “Buying.”

The crowd’s whispering sharpened. They couldn’t believe someone would pay for an empty jar.

Shen Tang weighed the silver in her palm, satisfied, and tucked it away. She reached for a jar—

The boy grabbed her wrist. “Little lady, are you going to sell me an empty jar?”

He glanced off behind him, as if someone there could testify. His face scrunched up in grievance. “That’s not how business works.”

Shen Tang laughed. “When did I say I’d sell you an empty jar? You’re interesting. If you’re so worried I’m a fraud, why throw silver at me anyway? Not afraid you’ll lose both money and wine?”

Chu Yao tugged Shen Tang’s sleeve and nodded toward the boy’s waist.

Shen Tang followed his gaze—and saw it.

A dark tiger-head jade bi disc hung there, ink-black at a glance. Only up close did the faint gold patterns show through, tiny seal script etched into the surface.

A Martial Gall Tiger Tally.

Shen Tang’s mouth tightened.

No wonder he wasn’t afraid of being scammed. If she tried to cheat him, he’d probably flip her stall and beat her senseless on the spot.

She snorted and drove her Literary Heart.

“Stirred to generosity, sorrow hard to forget,” she recited softly.

The next line was Boss Cao’s famous saying.