Chapter Ninety-Nine: The Cold Talisman Cloak?

“A person you can’t let go? An enemy?” Brother Lao muttered softly, echoing those words. In his own way of speaking, after all these years, some things might have been forgotten, yet now they were stirred up again, leaving his thoughts somewhat tangled. Suddenly, he felt an urge to escape, and the best way at that moment was undoubtedly to drink. When drunk, there would be no pain; or if he woke, those surging emotions would have calmed, vanished without a trace.

“I can’t say for sure what’s gotten into you today, why you’re asking these questions out of nowhere. Some things in the past, no one wants to bring them up—just like you. You wouldn’t ask without reason! Is there something you want to tell me?” Brother Lao was no fool. Perhaps at first, he was a bit confused, but in an instant, he had grasped the situation. At this level of questioning, the drunkard naturally had no reason to hide anything. He lifted the cup, but only sniffed it before setting it back on the table. Still feeling the heat from the drink, he chose to speak plainly.

“Actually, this wine wasn’t brought by any friend from the Central Plains, but by Autumn Thirteen of the Heavenly Fragrance Pavilion.”

“Autumn Thirteen?” That name was well-known throughout Shuozhou City. The Heavenly Fragrance Pavilion was undoubtedly the grandest tavern here. Whether locals or traveling merchants, anyone coming to Shuozhou would visit this place, lest they seem dull, their taste questioned. But Brother Lao had only heard of it; he never ventured into such bustling places. Even when the drunkard was noisy, he preferred a quiet, obscure tavern to drink a few cups in peace. After all, the northern desert wines were all the same—strong and potent—not quite suited to someone like him who spent most of his time in the Central Plains. Besides, he was merely a blacksmith. In Shuozhou, one could easily find a dozen others in the same trade. He wasn’t someone worthy of much concern. The drunkard was much the same, perhaps even less. Someone who drank all day could hardly hold any status; when spending money, he was a lord, but without money, he was no different from a beggar on the street. So, Autumn Thirteen would never lightly invite a drunkard for a drink, nor would she pay him. “How could she?”

Though the words were left unfinished, the meaning was clear. The drunkard understood what Brother Lao was implying. At that moment, he took a small sip, unsure if it was because too much time had passed or he had never drunk much to begin with, but the sensations weren’t very strong. The autumn fragrance seemed faintly tinged with spring’s aroma.

“Of course, she wouldn’t invite me without purpose. There must be something she wants. A friend of hers seems to be looking for someone from the Central Plains. You know me—I’ve spent years drifting through taverns and inns, so I know more than most. It makes sense she’d ask me for help. Nothing strange about that.”

His explanation seemed to try to conceal something, perhaps because he didn’t want Brother Lao’s thoughts to wander into the concerns he harbored. But Brother Lao was not so easily dismissed. He didn’t rush to finish his drink. The cold of winter was no comfort, and nothing compared to the harvest of autumn. Taking advantage of this warmth, he pressed on to clear his doubts.

“Drunkard, we’ve been friends for three years, right? When have you ever kept something from me? If it were really that simple, why all this evasion, and why these strange questions?”

That hit the drunkard’s thoughts squarely. There was no use hiding anything further. He sighed softly and slowly stood up. Facing each other like this made him uneasy, especially meeting the other’s gaze. Luckily, the window was not far. As he stood, a dark silhouette, shaped like a tree, swayed in the distance. Clearly, the northern desert nights were windy. Even with the tall pine-covered mountains shielding them, the unique geography couldn’t fully block the breeze. At last, his mind relaxed somewhat as he whispered:

“The person they’re looking for is also from the Central Plains, and a martial artist at that. The timeframe is roughly three years ago. Those details match your own situation closely, which worries me. If they’re seeking friends or family, no problem. But if they’re coming for revenge, I can’t just hand you over. After all, you’re my best friend here in Shuozhou City, aren’t you?”

Though phrased as a question, the tone was firm, as if he already knew the answer. As for the earlier behavior, now it had a definite explanation. Brother Lao chuckled lightly. Perhaps it was because of the word “friend” that he suddenly drained the remaining cup of four-season wine without hesitation, as if making a firm decision. He slammed the cup down heavily on the table and stood up. His steps attempted to approach the drunkard, but in the end, he gave up. The cold, mixed with the alcohol, made him unsteady, swaying slightly. Soon, he sat down heavily again, his gaze growing a little unfocused.

“There are some people and some matters you can’t avoid. So why run away? If it comes, let it come. Just face it, that’s all.”

He repeated those last words quietly. As Brother Lao picked up the wine jar, he smiled faintly, the meaning of which perhaps only he understood. Yet the wine was not poured out. Four-season wine has a peculiarity: it must be drunk in four sips; any more would be a waste. Realizing this, he quickly set the jar upright again. At that moment, the drunkard turned back and stood still, watching the man’s movements.

Unlike women, men in pain rarely seek comfort. They quietly lick their wounds, get drunk, and hope that when they awaken, everything will have passed. Loneliness and helplessness are the quickest teachers of growth and strength.

“If you could truly face it calmly, why then did you leave the Central Plains without a word and travel all the way to this northern desert? I think you’re a complete hypocrite. You even changed your name. There are the Qilian sect, Lao Er, Brother Xia San, but none called Brother Lao. But I do know someone named Han Tanyi, who resembles you somewhat. Do you still remember him?”

In the midst of this silence, a woman’s voice suddenly came from the rooftop. Though quiet, it was clear, jolting the two men awake.

The shock was unmistakable. Both the drunkard and Brother Lao were martial artists of considerable skill. During the day, with the noise outside as cover, an intruder might go unnoticed, but in such a quiet night, they had felt nothing, not even the faintest sound. How could this not be startling? Especially the drunkard’s expression, which grew even more unnatural. The words contained weight—especially mentioning the Qilian sect and Han Tanyi. In the martial world of the Central Plains, these names were famous. Three years ago, at the Mingyue Mountain Manor martial arts tournament, even if nothing else remained, that young man became a legend. Whether good or bad, even now, his story was a staple among tavern storytellers. The drunkard had heard of him but never imagined such a person would appear before him now, living under this identity, and that this friendship spanned three years.

Brother Lao said nothing. His silence perhaps the best confirmation of the truth. Maybe now it was more fitting to call him Han Tanyi. But each time he thought of that name, it brought more pain than anything else. An orphan by fate, already unfortunate, yet he had met a master named Dao Tianfeng who gave him the name Han Tanyi. The mix of gratitude and bitterness remained unclear to him all these years. Perhaps hiding away was the simplest solution. He had thought he’d never again encounter these words, quietly living in this place where no one knew his past, fading into obscurity. Yet he had only hidden for three years before:

“I am Han Tanyi. If you’ve come to take my head for a reward, just come inside. I won’t resist. But I beg you, spare my friend. He knows nothing; he’s innocent and should not be dragged into this.”