Chương 30: B1 Chapter 30

It was finally ready. Perhaps finally was the wrong word. One month was fast for wine. It was also slow. Wine was fun like that, with many secrets and nuances. Green worms worked slowly. On Mount Yuelu, he would usually leave his green worm batches for an entire season. Orange-crest had not made a habit of checking in at any regular interval, but he'd made enough batches to understand the process. First green worms would surface to the top of the mash, and make their homes there.

The worms might dive deep, to get at the most succulent bits of mashed fruit, but they would surface quickly. In this first stage, the wine was at best mashed fruits. It was at worst, bad-rotten fruit. It would never get a monkey drunk. After weeks or months, the worms would begin to dive deeper and stay there. Sometimes orange-crest would paw through the mash, looking for the worms to be certain no bird or beast had stolen them away. The worms would get fatter, and far more sluggish.

Once the worms no longer surfaced, the wine was good enough to drink. But it would continue to get better the longer orange-crest left it. Even though the worms seemed sluggish, the process of fruit breaking down continued. Even dense peels with thick sheathes of rind would begin to fall apart, dissolving into the now soupy mash. Orange-crest would leave the mash until the worms hardly seemed to move at all. If they died, especially if they died early in the process, the wine would fall to foul-rot.

Yeast, on the other hand, worked very differently. It burned like a fire, fast at first, then slow and quiet. When orange-crest had made wine with Daoist Scouring Medicine, they had checked in on its progress almost every day past the second. In a single week, it had grown stronger than all but the harshest of monkey wine. At this time, Daoist Scouring Medicine had insisted they filter out what remained of the mash. Orange-crest had been dubious. Why waste good fruit-flesh? In the end, they had compromised.

Daoist Scouring Medicine had filtered most of the jars, leaving the flesh in only a few. Orange-crest quickly saw the wisdom in his brother's technique. When fermenting with yeast, the pulp rose to the top of the wine, instead of sinking to the bottom. At the top, it sometimes spoiled, just like when orange-crest covered a batch of wine with the wrong kind of leaves. Even in the two pulped batches that did not turn foul of taste and concerning of color, the inclusion of the pulp left them tasting... Wrong.

Bitter in a way that was not the burn of alcohol. The batch orange-crest was delicately sniffing used both green worms and yeast. This one was made with a base of stone-plums, with persimmons and a couple of very well smashed citrons for secondary flavors.

To that mash, orange-crest had added yeast, half a dozen fat and healthy green worms, two hundred-year ginsengs purchased from Disciple Yan Delun, a few choice cuttings of leafy herbs from his brother's garden, acquired with permission, and a single massive spirit stone. One month ago the jar had contained a thick dark mash, shot with flecks of white-green citron peel and wiggling worms. It had also contained most of the treasures orange-crest had found in his season upon the Azure Mountain.

Brother Scouring Medicine had chastised orange-crest for 'putting all his eggs in one basket', but he had no retort when orange-crest had reminded him of the centipede wine. Orange-crest had two baskets! Now, a single worm swam in a wine-dark sea, and from the smell alone orange-crest knew it a success worthy of celebration. Orange-crest's paw hung in the air like a falcon, waiting for the right moment. The worm stilled, and the monkey's paw descended. Orange-crest marveled at the way the worm wriggled in his hand.

It was not merely fat and lively, its skin had grown a little thicker. Thicker and tauter, like the strange texture of Daoist Scouring Medicine's face in the week after he cooked himself. The color had changed as well. The worm was still a deep green, but there was a splotchy tinge of blue to it now, patches of color like wispy clouds against a dreary sky. If the sky was green. And a worm. Orange-crest returned the furiously wriggling worm to its bath. He licked his paw and shivered. Oh, that was good.

Sweet and fiery and just a little sour. Easily the best wine he had ever had. A moment later, his heart-fire flared to life, as if he had stoked his qi for battle. A dantian, his brother called the heart-fire. Men had three apparently, though most of them kept all their fire in one. His brother wasn't sure if monkeys had three, or two. He had many books, but on this matter they did not agree with each other.

"Mmm..." Orange-crest hummed. He had the wine. The bath was almost ready. Now was as good a time as any to do another cultivation. He wanted to show his brother he could breakthrough on his own, before the daoist's treatment. But where would he drink? And how would he cultivate? He still wasn't quite sure about those. Still, first thing first. He wasn't drinking with his brother today. He needed to do this alone, and he wasn't going to share this special wine. He might need all of it.

But his brother deserved a taste. Orange-crest headed into the kitchen. All the drinking cups were too small, so he grabbed one of the proper bowls. The monkey smiled. With Daoist Enduring Oath's encouragement, he'd fed his brother from one of these, when he was at his lowest. Lots of little sips. Lots of dribbling thick white congee on fancy robes. Good times. Probably not good times for Daoist Scouring Medicine, but good times for orange-crest. He filled the bowl with wine.

As orange-crest carried it through the study, a fragrant aroma filled the house. Sourer, and more floral, than the taste. Orange-crest breathed in, resisting the urge to take a proper sip. His heart-fire crackled. Even the scent carried qi upon it. Truly, he was a genius among brewers. Even the Monkey King would look upon this, and declare it good and worthy. Daoist Scouring Medicine was already staring, when orange-crest opened the door.

"It is ready, then?" He asked, as if he couldn't smell how ready it was. The man sat at a table, making metal tea. When he'd entered the second phase of work on his bodily refinement bath, Daoist Scouring Medicine had withdrawn some of the strangest objects orange-crest had ever seen from his storage cellar. Great orbs and curving serpents, all wrought of translucent glass. After the metal-rock had been dissolved into water, the daoist had bottled up all the water.

Then, day by day, carefully measured portion by carefully measured portion, he'd made metal tea with it. That was what orange-crest called it. What else would one call it when they filled a glass vessel with water, added a variety of metal powders, then boiled the vessel until the powders dissolved. Daoist Scouring Medicine now had three different flavors of tea. Or, as he insisted on calling them 'buffered aqueous solutions of metallic salts'. Each was its own, disturbingly vibrant, color.

The daoist kept each of them in separate containers, far from orange-crest's curious paws, because they were 'highly toxic when separate' and 'highly volatile when mixed'. Orange-crest wasn't the one who kept producing highly toxic materials. Really, he should be the one telling the daoist not to touch things.

"It smells divine." Daoist Scouring Medicine continued, jolting orange-crest back to reality. Blech. Divinity. That made even less sense than economics. Kings who were not kings that nobody ever saw. Except men couldn't even agree on which were kings and which were tigers.

"Is better. Is monkey."

"Very funny." The daoist replied dryly.

"You never get tired of that one, do you?"

"Nope. Why get tired? Is truth, not joke." Orange-crest chittered. He liked this. Being able to understand and be understood. It was nice. He wasn't quite where he wanted to be yet. It was still beyond him to explain that he claimed monkey was best because it was a statement that became true in the saying. A boast that was a promise, to do better and best, because how else should one do? It was a hard thought to explain. It sounded more true-wise when the Monkey King said it.

"Bowl is for you." Orange-crest placed it on his brother's table, careful not to disturb any of the papers or powders.

"Thank you." Daoist Scouring Medicine lifted the bowl, peering into the wine. Very clear, by the monkey's standards. His disciple tended to shoot right past cloudy and well into 'alcoholic soup' territory. It was certainly spirit wine. He didn't need taste or smell to tell that much. Every daoist had their own flavor of spiritual sense. For Daoist Scouring Medicine, qi was simply another part of the world. Another thing to be perceived. Sometimes he identified its flavor by smell, or judged its quantity by sight.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. To his eyes, the little cup of wine looked like it was steaming. The vapor that wafted from its surface was not clear, as the best breakthrough aids were. The qi was tinged green, but in the verdant way of life and medicine, not the murky toxicity of poison qi. Daoist Scouring Medicine took a sip. Sometimes a mortal apothecary judged things by taste.

He'd never known a reason why an immortal one should not judge qi by it.

"Well?" Orange-crest demanded impatiently.

"Is good? Is better than men's wines?" He knew it was, obviously. He'd had men's wines. They were good. But not this good. Daoist Scouring Medicine's eyes closed, as he swished the wine around in his mouth. Slowly, they opened. Orange-crest fought the urge to shake the infuriating human as his face went through several exaggerated expressions of joy, disgust, and contemplation. He was making orange-crest wait on purpose!

With all the solemnity of a astrologer delivering an imperial horoscope, Daoist Scouring Medicine gave his verdict.

"If you did not tell them it was made by a monkey, you could sell this to the imperial court."

"Tch." Orange-crest clicked his tongue. Men were silly like that. He would drink wine made by a tiger, if it were good enough. He would just steal it, rather than trade for it.

"It's good, Li Hou. Very good."

"How good?" Orange-crest pressed.

"I'm no connoisseur of spiritual wines, to know where it stands in the broader market. But it's as fine as any high or mid first realm wine I've ever tasted. Strong and clean, with a qi suited to its flavor. What are you going to call it?" Orange-crest thought about it. It shouldn't need a name. A name on a wine was like clothes on a monkey. But men really liked names. And more importantly, he had a good one.

Hundred-year ginseng roots had the capacity for independent locomotion, needing to be restrained in boxes lest they wiggle away to freedom. The name he'd given them on Mount Yuelu was still a good one.

"Two-Worm Monkey Wine!" Daoist Scouring Medicine snorted.

"Is good name." Orange-crest insisted.

"I'm sure one day it will empty treasuries like an immortal inheritance at an auction house."

"Yes! It will do that!" Orange-crest agreed. The business of sharing discharged, orange-crest abruptly shifted topics.

"Is cultivation time. I'm going out now. Bye."

"Do you know what you're going to do? How you will use the wine to cultivate?"

"Yes." Orange-crest lied. He knew what he was doing. He was figuring out what he was doing. That counted.

"Are you taking the whole jug?"

"Yes."

"Here, I have some rope and straps somewhere. Let's rig up a harness for you." Orange-crest was dubious, but he found the contraption more bearable than clothing. When Daoist Scouring Medicine was done a pair of straps secured the heavy enameled jug against his back, while a third loop kept it from bouncing too hard off the monkey's back as he walked. His fur chafed at the shoulder, but it was better than carrying the jug.

"Do try not to fall over. That would be make for a tragically expensive mess."

"Pwfwah." Orange-crest retorted elegantly. His brother was so worried about the coldest of outcomes it was a wonder he ever did anything. Daoist Scouring Medicine sighed.

"If something goes wrong, bite your paw, and smear blood across the jade band Daoist Enduring Oath gave you. I will come. It will not do for me to fuss over your advancement like a hysterical mother, but if you need me, I am never far from hand." Orange-crest's eyes twitched, but he didn't let them widen. He definitely bled on the band when the disciples chased him down. But Daoist Scouring Medicine was at home when he returned. Unless... Was he that fast? Or that stealthy? The monkey shivered.

That was a thought both comforting and frightful.

"I go now."

"Good fortune walk with you, Li Hou. Remember, whether you succeed or fail, the path unfolds before those who walk with steady steps. Whether or not Heaven recognizes your hard work, know that I do." Orange-crest left. He knew so many words now, yet still none of them could give voice to the impossible snarl of feelings that roiled in his breast.

Orange-crest unshouldered the jug and scooped a proper handful of wine. His tongue rejoiced and his throat burned. He took a deep breath, salving the burn with the cool night air. This was good and well. A bottomless well of drink at his back, and a mountain to explore before him? Where should he go? It would be nice, one day, to drink with Yang Wei. But today wasn't a day for sharing, and he had no idea where Yang Wei laid his head to rest. He'd seen the younger humans sharing drinks in fellowship.

Warm houses of thick wood set at the base of the mountain, where wine and laughter flowed in tandem. But that was also a thing for another day. No, today was a day for drinking alone. Humans said cultivation was the climb to heaven. It only made sense, to make a climb as short as possible. Orange-crest looked up at the horizon. The Azure Mountain had many peaks. From his vantage midway up the slope, it was impossible to tell which was the highest. That was fine. He didn't need the highest peak.

He picked a nearby one, and started walking. Orange-crest drank as he walked. Every time he found a pleasing vista, he would sit and swallow a handful or two, before moving onward and upward. Spirit wine was strange. Even as his head began to swim, his chest and limbs burned with wild energy. The qi-imbued alcohol chased away the cold of the night, and before long orange-crest found himself running up the mountain. Motion felt effortless.

He paid careful attention to his footing, to avoid a spill shattering the jar of wine, but it was an effortless sort of care. No matter how hard he focused, focusing felt easy. Like there was always more focus to go around. In the Fathomless Well, the part he always found hardest was the gathering of qi. It was like drinking in wintry exhaustion, a deadening of the mind and limbs.

When he cycled the qi he had taken in, made it his own, a renewed strength would wipe away the hateful apathy, as the flames in his dantian rose. But the newly kindled fire was never quite enough to wipe away the gathering cold. With each 'breath' of qi, he would grow colder and more tired, until orange-crest could soon cultivate no more. The qi from the Twin-Worm Monkey Wine didn't do that to him. He took a sip, and the fire within him blazed. It had a different problem.

The wine was starting to hit him like a punch from Daoist Enduring Oath. Orange-crest felt good, but he knew it was a deceptive sort of goodness. If he didn't pace himself, the wine would soon turn against him. Orange-crest looked up at the sky. He didn't thank it often enough, for being so beautiful. Orange-crest opened himself to the world. His brother had taught him to let the cold of the Fathomless Well in, draw upon the abyssal yin of the earth. This wasn't that.

But it was cold, so surely it had a yin of its own. He could not have named the energies that rode the winds high atop the mountain. One was fleeting and soft, another cold and stark. The third was proud and wild. Orange-crest grasped at them all. He was a monkey of the mountains, these flows of qi were his to claim. He did not need to name them to know them. Did not need to know them to command them. Cold and heat met in his chest, fighting each other to dominate his body.

Orange-crest let them rage against each other, gently guiding them across the battlefield of his body. Then when their fury was spent, he shepherded them gently back to his dantian. His heart-fire grew ever brighter, the walls of the space in his chest that was not a space straining themselves to contain it. Orange-crest blinked. He was climbing now. Paw over paw, up sheer rock. He'd been so focused looking inward that he hadn't even noticed.

Another thread of qi joined the other four, the familiar strength of the earth. Every time he hauled himself upward, the call of the earth grew heavier. The jug of wine felt like a paw around his throat, threatening to pull him to his doom. His dantian was so very full. Orange-crest was close. He knew it. He could see the top of the cliff, feel the walls of his dantian press against the raging fire within. He cycled. He climbed. He cycled. The world narrowed around him. His dantian began to hurt.

His chest burned like a red-hot ember rested there. His head ached, and his vision swam. A paw reached for the next handhold, and found nothing. For a long moment, it hung in the air, and orange-crest felt his stomach shift as gravity began to pull. No. Then the paw crashed down on flat ground. The top. He did it. Orange-crest pulled himself and the jug over the edge, then rolled over, exhausted. Why was he doing this again? He could hardly remember, through the haze of the qi, alcohol, and exhaustion.

Orange-crest hefted the jug, now almost half empty, and drank deeply from the rim. His dantian ached like a rotting tooth, like the year his limbs had doubled in length in a summer. He pushed as hard against the walls of his dantian as he could. They did not yield. The world tilted underfoot. Could he take another deep drink? Would it be enough? A year ago, he would have called this a dream. The power in his limbs. The way his fingers felt like they could crush fresh wood to pulp.

The burning in his chest, from qi and alcohol. The way the beautiful snow before him felt warm as he ran his toes through it. But it wasn't enough. The dream, or the power. His dantian was full, stuffed to bursting. But it wasn't enough. This dream wasn't enough for this new orange-crest. He wanted more. He wanted to watch formless-gleam trick his brother. He wanted to beat Yang Wei, to show him he was the stronger, and share a drink after.

He wanted Daoist Enduring Oath to throw all his brothers and sisters into the sky, let them experience what it was like to fly as a monkey-made-falling-star. He wanted the Monkey King to try his wine, and declare it good. He wanted to meet dragons and merchants and generals and monks, all these fantastic characters the daoists spoke of. To walk the edge of the horizon and beyond. That was it, wasn't it? He wanted it. He wanted it all.

He wanted a single perfect night, where all the beasts he cared for, creatures of every language and form, would mingle beneath the stars. He wanted it, so he would take it. Make it. By will and might and guile, he would brew that night into being. His fingers twitched, as if they could encompass the world. Then they dipped once more into the wine, and came up clutching a worm. It writhed furiously, as if it knew its fate. Orange-crest bit down, devouring the delicious worm in two bites.

The thin membrane that held him apart from the third stage of qi condensation shattered. For a moment, the exhaustion fell away. Orange-crest screamed at the heavens. Roared out all his hunger and fear and anticipation and doubt. The mountain echoed with cries, as a hundred birds and beasts each gave their own answer. The monkey staggered back, spent. He looked down, and paled. He was very high up. He really shouldn't fall asleep on the mountain reeking of spirit wine. That would be bad.

The long walk home would be a bitter root indeed to chew. Powered by qi alone, the monkey slowly started back down the mountain.

Six hours after he left, orange-crest staggered back in to Daoist Scouring Medicine's home.

"I take it your cultivation went well." Orange-crest groaned. His brother was so loud. But he wasn't going to shut up unless orange-crest said something.

"Was simple. Drink wine. Breathe air. Know self. Eat worm. Grow stronger. Sleep now."

"Understandable." Daoist Scouring Medicine blinked.

"Wait. You eat the worms?" Orange-crest did not elaborate. Instead he toddled into the nest of old robes he used as a bed, and passed out. He did not awaken for two days.