"Braised chicken wings, I love to eat..."
At the foot of Dragon-Tiger Mountain, Yang Ge, filthy and disheveled enough to resemble a wild man, squatted beside a fire pit. A pheasant skewered on the Cold Moon Saber sizzled with dripping fat as he happily turned it and sprinkled on salt.
Suddenly, his hand paused over the salt. He looked up and said with a grin, "You're here? Eaten yet?"
A white-haired old man in black Daoist robes, equally untidy, strolled over to the fire pit and replied, "Not yet!"
Yang Ge tore off a large, oily drumstick and handed it to him. "Here, have a drumstick on me!"
The white-haired old man glanced at it and declared with perfect confidence, "I want a wing!"
Yang Ge casually stuffed the drumstick into his own mouth, then tore off a wing and handed it over, muttering, "Fine, fine. You're the old one, after all..."
The white-haired old man did not mind his greasy, grubby paws. He took the wing and started gnawing.
The old man and the young man squatted beside the fire pit, sucking the chicken bones with relish.
Yang Ge said, "Enough? Help yourself if it isn't!"
"Burp. Enough."
The white-haired old man belched, snapped off a twig, and picked his teeth. "A little burnt, and the seasoning hasn't soaked in. Mind that next time."
Yang Ge tossed away his drumstick bone, pulled the whole pheasant off the Cold Moon Saber, and held it in his hands as he took great bites. "Sure," he replied indistinctly. "I'll try clay-oven chicken next time."
The white-haired old man gave him an envious look and sighed. "Being young really is wonderful!"
Yang Ge glanced at him. "Living to your age must be pretty tough too, huh?"
The white-haired old man said helplessly, "Can't