A grinning old scholar arrived at the Fire God Temple and stood at the foot of the flower trellis steps. He said he wanted Feng Yi to help him find out what was happening inside the palace, lest his Final Disciple—simple-hearted, kind to others, and innocent of intrigue—be bullied by certain people who relied on being a few years older to throw their weight around. If some old fossil managed to muddle through by sheer luck and still showed no gratitude, he, as the disciple's teacher, certainly could not stand by and watch.
The old scholar did not spare the old coachman a proper glance. He busied himself ingratiating himself with Feng Yi, bowing as soon as they met. Afterward, instead of sitting at the Stone Table by the coachman, he launched into a string of words that sounded as though they had just been fished from a vat of pickled cabbage: where there were flowers, moonlight, and a beauty, there would be fine poetry; poetry, too, begged inspiration from wine; without mellow wine in this world, fair hours and lovely scenes were all for naught...
Unable to bear the sourness, Feng Yi tossed the old scholar a jar of Hundred Flower Brew to stop his mouth. He sat on a stone step beneath the flower trellis, then seemed to notice the old coachman at last. Straightening up in a hurry with an "Oh my," he carried his wine jar over to the Stone Table and offered a bout of attentive, tactful conversation. He muttered a few words on behalf of his esteemed senior: how had the coachman been left with only half a jar of wine? His name had long rung like thunder in the old scholar's ears, and now that they had finally met, surely they had to