The Ming Dynasty Sequence : Chapter 458: Strong Liquor in the Heart

Chapter 458: Liquor Enters the Heart

For Xiazi, tonight's business was an utter disaster.

First came a relentless downpour that lasted all night; the cold, damp weather drove the itinerant laborers home early, and the streets saw far fewer revelers seeking pleasure.

Then came a series of crackling explosions like firecrackers, echoing from the southern district.

In the bootleggers' communication channel, someone said the Embroidered Uniform Guard was raiding thieves on Chang'an Avenue, and a fierce firefight had erupted.

Those firecracker sounds were actually gunfire!

None of that concerned Xiazi; she was preoccupied with the batch of white liquor she had just blended.

The stimulant she had mixed into the alcohol would lose most of its potency by tonight's end.

Because the Pacification Commissioner's office had recently launched a sweeping crackdown on the city's black-market workshops and itinerant peddlers, street competition had dwindled considerably. Many taverns and izakayas, cut off from their supplies, were forced to sell expensive imported liquor.

Seizing the opportunity, Xiazi didn't care that her trade was precisely the high-risk venture the Pacification Commissioner targeted; she boldly took out a large loan of incense money from the newly risen Buddha's Association in Osaka City, pouring it all into illicit liquor production, hoping to make a killing.

"I need to move this stock quickly, or I'll default on the Buddha's Association's first installment of merit interest—and that would be trouble."

Whenever she thought of those compassionate, soft-spoken bald giants, a chill ran down her spine.

In her view, they were far more terrifying than the city's old-school gangsters.

Though she couldn't pinpoint where that feeling came from, Xiazi had always trusted her gut.

After all, surviving so many years in Osaka City, that instinct had been her sole reliance.

With that thought, she tugged tighter the collar of her plastic raincoat and quickened her pace.

After walking street and alley for the span of an incense stick, Xiazi finally arrived at her destination.

This street gathered Osaka City's northern district's most affordable, best-reputed low-end taverns and izakayas—the favorite haunt of the northern laborers.

Yet the desolate sight before her left the eager Xiazi frozen in place.

No bustling crowds as she had imagined; only row after row of shop doors shut tight beneath dim lighting.

Clogged drainage outlets had flooded the street with ankle‑deep sewage, various trash bobbing up and down.

Even the liquor banners and carp flags hanging before the shops limp in the rain, devoid of their former vigor.

"What's going on? Why isn't anyone doing business?"

Xiazi stared, dumbfounded, utterly unaware of what had happened.

Suddenly, a memory struck her; she fumbled into her raincoat and pulled out an old electronic case file, logging into the forum commonly used by bootleggers.

Those lacking the means—or the desire—to indulge in the Yellow Millet Dream resorted to this low‑security text‑based contact, always risking capture if the guards used it as evidence.

[Warning: A vicious assault has occurred in Osaka City's northern district; the Pacification Commissioner's guards are fully deployed, ordering all northern entertainment venues to shut down immediately, forbidding idle persons from wandering about. The ban will be lifted at sunrise tomorrow, the Mao hour.]

[Reminder: Today is suitable for returning home to sleep; venturing out to sell liquor is inadvisable.]

The forum lay empty, a tomb of silence.

Only two lines of scarlet text hung on the page.

"When did the northern district suffer a vicious assault? My own people are there—I didn't notice a thing."

Suddenly, Xiazi recalled the few thunderous booms she had heard earlier.

At the time she had dismissed them as thunder, paying them no heed.

Xiazi gripped her hair in frustration; today she had styled it in the imperial‑native women's 'huan yun' coiffure, now torn loose and disheveled by her grasp.

"Damn the advisory against selling liquor—what am I to do with this stock? How will I pay the Buddha's Association's merit interest?"

Her sharp curses echoed across the empty street, quickly swallowed by the roar of rain.

"Are you a liquor seller?"

As Xiazi railed against the guards, a dry, aged voice suddenly spoke.

She snapped her mouth shut, alert, and lifted her gaze toward the source.

Under the eaves of an izakaya, a murky silhouette loomed—human‑shaped.

A scavenger beggar? Or a drunk just roused from sleep?

Could it be a Yellow Millet Ghost?!

Xiazi's heart leapt; having grown up scraping a living on the streets, she had heard too many eerie tales of the Yellow Millet Ghosts.

These entities, born from inferior yellow‑millet dreams, love to possess males deficient in yang energy.

From the timbre of that voice, it was far beyond mere yang depletion—it was the utter exhaustion of oil and wick.

Xiazi pressed her lips tight, her right hand inching toward the pistol tucked at her waist—a Feathered Forest Guard sidearm.

"Please don't jam on me now."

A sudden regret washed over her; why, when she received the incense money, hadn't she first bought a better weapon for self‑defense?

Then she wouldn't have to rely on that antiquated pistol, older than she was, strapped to her hip.

"Tell me, are you selling illicit liquor?"

From the shadow emerged a horrifying visage: torn flesh clung to a collapsed mechanical skull, the artificial eyes bare of eyelids, staring starkly into the cold air.

On the 'ghost face' the lips did not move; the impatient words seemed to come from nowhere.

"Sir, you are quite right—I am a liquor seller."

Xiazi flung her hands up, a bright smile spreading across her face as she stood there, bobbing and bowing.

She did not recognize the man before her, twisted into this ghastly state; even if she had seen him before, she would not know him now.

What caused her attitude to shift dramatically was the unmistakable, extensive evidence of mechanical augmentation on his body.

Even his head had been altered; if he had not enlisted in the military ranks, he was at least a formidable gang enforcer.

Such a figure, whether or not possessed by a Yellow Millet Ghost, was beyond the capability of her Feathered Forest Guard pistol to handle.

"Isn't it curfew? Why haven't those damned guards come on patrol yet?"

Xiazi once again cursed the Osaka City guards in her mind.

"Since you're a liquor seller, why are you just standing there? Old man, I'll buy a drink."

"Ah… good!"

Xiazi hurried forward, rolled up her sleeves, and drew a 'vein' from beneath the skin at her wrist.

It was a disguised conduit, its other end connected to the liquor sample she kept implanted in her abdominal cavity.

"I dare not take your money, sir—drink as much as you like; consider it my treat."

Xiazi wore an apologetic grin, lifting her gaze from the ground by an inch, swiftly scanning the man's shoulder.

His right shoulder was bare, the torn fabric hanging in strands resembling tangled hair.

What a pity—his hand had been cut off.

His left hand remained intact, yet it bore no resemblance to someone who could suddenly produce a drinking cup from his sleeve.

"Without a cup, how are we supposed to drink?"

Could it be that one simply pours it straight into the mouth?

Xiazi steeled herself and said, "Sir, where would you like me to pour this drink? Or shall I break down the door and fetch one from the shop for you?"

"No need for all that trouble."

A hand took Xiazi's 'vein' and shoved it straight into the lip‑like crack on the 'ghost face.'

"Pour the drink."

"Ah, ah, here it comes."

Xiazi dared not resist; she hurriedly flicked her ring finger, opening the valve inside her.

She didn't dare sit on the same step as the gentleman; instead she crouched beside him, letting him gulp down her 'vein.'

"The deal fell through and I even lost a batch of samples. That would be bad enough, but it's curfew now! If the night watch finds me still loitering in the street, hanging out with someone so obviously not ordinary, I'll be in serious trouble."

On the streets, you first look at the banknotes, then at connections, then at fists.

If you have none of those, then it all comes down to guts.

Although Xiazi is a woman, her courage has always been great; otherwise she wouldn't dare borrow money from the Buddha's Son Society, nor would she choose to sell illicit liquor while the authorities crack down.

But being bold doesn't mean she fears nothing.

The person beside her is likely one of the suspects in today's North City attack. If she gets tangled with him, even hoping for a quick death would be a luxury.

"My luck is just too terrible."

Xiazi hung her head in dejection, yet a soft pattering sound reached her ears.

It wasn't the rain; it sounded more like water droplets striking stone.

Startled, Xiazi turned her head; from that angle, through the tear in her robe, she could see the other's body.

The entire chest area held no flesh or organs, only a terrifying, explosion‑shaped void.

And that pattering was the liquor seeping from the ruptured throat, splashing onto the machinery.

"If you can't drink it, then don't—don't waste my stuff, for heaven's sake!"

Xiazi cursed inwardly, but kept her expression neutral as she glanced away, continuing to stare at her own toes.

"I just wanted to see if I could still taste anything. But now it looks like this body is rotting far too badly."

The owner of the 'ghost face' seemed able to read her mind, seeing straight through Xiazi's thoughts.

"Sir, that's not right. Drinking alcohol, especially this clear liquor, isn't just about the flavor—there's also that... that..."

Her heart hammered wildly, leaving her head a little foggy; she couldn't recall the well‑rehearsed pitch she'd once known.

A face still bearing obvious youthful traces flushed crimson, its muffled voice tangled with an uncontrollable tremor.

It's over—I'm done for!

Yet what shocked Xiazi was that the gentleman beside her didn't seem angered by her ramblings; instead, his tone suddenly softened considerably.

"How old are you?"

"I just came of age."

"So you're only fifteen? Why aren't you studying at the Confucian Temple instead of selling illicit liquor on the streets?"

"Studying doesn't fill the stomach."

"I recall that in every major city of the Wō region, the Confucian Temple freely accepts students, providing full room and board plus a decent stipend."

"You"

A flash of indignation was instantly swallowed by fear, and Xiazi's angry retort turned into an honest confession: "My genes aren't up to par—I can't even meet the entrance threshold."

"Isn't the Confucian Temple supposed to teach all, regardless of status or genes?"

"The policy has long since changed."

Xiazi brushed the messy hair from her forehead, lifted her gaze to the rain‑battered, bubbling wastewater before her, and said calmly: "I know how other big cities work, but in Osaka, to study at the Confucian Temple you have to pay the teachers—a fee they call shūxiū. I have no parents, no money, so I can't study."

The voice beside her fell silent for a long while, then slowly replied: "If you can run a bootlegging business, surely you can scrape together the tuition?"

"It's all borrowed."

Xiazi answered honestly: "Before, no one would lend money to someone like me—only the Buddha's Son Society would do that."

"The Buddha's Son... even the Buddha's Order has come in now."

He said it so low that the dazed Xiazi didn't catch it clearly.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. But even if it's borrowed, isn't going to the Confucian Temple better than selling bootleg liquor?"

"The teachers won't take borrowed money; they consider it dirty."

Xiazi propped her chin on one hand: "Actually, studying isn't much use anyway—could it really let one break the lock, rise in rank, and become a lofty lord? Well, I'm a woman, so I'd be called a lady, but that's utterly impossible."

Though she said that, Xiazi herself heard the insincerity in her words, and felt a deep pang of envy.

"Bootleg liquor is also a prohibited item; if the night watch catches you doing this business, you'll be severely punished under the Great Ming law—aren't you afraid?"

"Of course I'm not afraid—what could be scarier than poverty?"

Xiazi replied matter‑of‑factly: "Dying at the hands of the night watch is death, dying at the hands of gangsters is death, starving to death on the street is death—there's no difference."

"And what do you think of the new policies the officials are pushing?"

"Of course they're good," Xiazi said without hesitation.

"Why?"

"I don't know why—perhaps it's just an illusion—but I sense a bleak, dim emotion in the other's words."

"I can't really explain it either."

Xiazi licked her lips: "At least if I weren't in debt, I wouldn't have to worry about waking up tomorrow to find myself on an operating table in a gangster's clinic."

"But after the new policies, the Wō region won't be the Wō region anymore."

Xiazi exclaimed joyfully: "That would be even better! No longer a criminal zone, then I too could become a subject of the Empire! I'll give myself a fine Ming‑style name, just like the students at the Confucian Temple!"

"And what about Wa—"

His words were cut short as a hand suddenly shot into Xiazi's field of vision, returning her 'vein' to her.

"This drink... I'm not drinking it."

Xiazi's heart gave a sudden jolt, thinking her words had offended him; she lifted her face and forced a smile: "It's fine—if you can't taste it, pouring it into your stomach still counts as drinking away sorrow."

"There's nothing to sorrow over anymore—just leave it like that. How much for the drink?"

"No charge—this is my tribute to you," Xiazi said, tears welling up.

"Money must be paid; a sum is a sum."

A voice issued from the other's body, carrying an undeniable authority.

The girl trembled, slowly spreading her palms before her.

"Chengchenghui, one hundred treasure notes."

The gentle rustle of the search lingered a moment, but Xiazi's palm remained empty.

I have no money on me.

Xiazi's crouched form quivered like a sudden shock, and the five outstretched fingers snapped shut.

It is the shameless rascal who dares to demand money from you—truly heedless of consequence.

When the feigned sigh of embarrassment faded, several banknotes slipped through his fingers.

This money, I’ll give it for him.

Xiazi lifted his gaze in bewilderment, and there before him stood a thin, striking youth with sharply defined features, beneath a black umbrella, his pallid face bearing a gentle smile.

Is that enough?

Enough, indeed.

Then hurry back.

Xiazi, clutching the money, hurriedly rose, failing even to pull the hood of his plastic raincoat over his head before charging into the rain.

Wait a moment.

The sudden stop of his steps sent a cascade of splashes into the puddles.

Take this. When you encounter an unsolvable trouble, go to Edo and find a man named Toyotomi Shuao; he will repay my wine debt for today.

Xiazi caught the faint glimmer the other tossed, and under the street lamps' glow she could clearly see several lifelike feathers etched upon it.

Sir, your wine money has already been paid.

One sum, one sum!

Thank you, sir.

At this moment, the long street held only the youth holding an umbrella and a slumped old man.