Chapter 374: Educating Luo Longwen

After that incident, Yan Shifan could no longer maintain his composure. His plump face flushed with humiliation and anger, and under the pretext of changing clothes in the rear courtyard, he left the banquet in a hurry.

The moment he disappeared, the hall erupted into chaos. The once-lively atmosphere now boiled over with righteous indignation, and the air was filled with denunciations of Shen Lian’s behavior—as though what he had done moments ago was an unforgivable crime against heaven itself.

The irony was sharp as a blade. Not long ago, Yan Shifan had done exactly the same thing, yet these people, drunk and fickle as reeds in the wind, had conveniently forgotten it.

As applause rang out for Shen Lian’s courage and sense of justice, Zhu Ping’an found himself unable to join in the jubilation. Instead, a faint unease coiled in his chest. He knew too well that this was the height of the Yan family’s power. History recorded that Shen Lian would one day fall victim to the cruel machinations of Yan Song and his son. Perhaps… this was where that tragic enmity first began.

Perhaps, Zhu Ping’an thought, what I lack most… is that very courage.

But he quickly shook the notion from his mind. No—he could not act so recklessly.

When an egg strikes a stone, it is not courage but folly. There are moments when lifting one’s head high is easy, yet lowering it with wisdom is far more difficult.

Before him, the feast remained abundant and dazzling—fine meats, rare seafood, exotic delicacies, the fragrance of wine and spice intermingling—but Zhu Ping’an found all appetite lost. The joy had drained from his heart.

Though he had poured most of that last great cup of wine into his sleeve earlier, a small amount had still passed his lips. Now, as the alcohol took hold in the haze of his melancholy, a soft flush crept across his face, and a gentle warmth clouded his thoughts.

Just as his vision began to blur with the pleasant fog of intoxication, a shadow loomed before him—a massive wine jar appeared on the table, its brim filled to the edge.

On the other side of it stood Luo Longwen, grinning like a cat that had cornered a mouse, his expression as oily as the gleam of the wine itself.

“Come, come, Zhuangyuan-lang,” he said, using that honorific mockingly. “Let me offer you a drink.” He raised a delicate wine cup—small enough to hold in one hand—while shoving the enormous, brimming vessel toward Zhu Ping’an. The smile at his lips was that of a weasel wishing a rooster a happy New Year—insincere, sly, and full of malice.

The entire table turned to watch.

One man held a small cup; the other, a jug fit for a giant. The imbalance was deliberate and cruel.

Laughter and whispers rippled around the hall. “Ha, here we go again. The young favorite of Little Ge Lao is bullying someone,” someone murmured. “Our Zhuangyuan-lang’s face is red already—looks like his tolerance is poor. I wonder what sort of drunk he’ll be once he’s had too much?”

Zhu Ping’an stared silently at Luo Longwen’s smug, wretched face.

What kind of smile is that? How does one’s face even look that punchable? he thought darkly.

A small cup for yourself and a great urn for me—do you take me for a fool? Or do you think Zhu Ping’an is some soft persimmon you can squeeze at will?

True, he did not possess Shen Lian’s hot-blooded valor. But that did not mean he was a coward to be trampled upon.

Water lies low to become the sea; man bows low to become a king. His humility had never meant weakness—it was a strategy, not submission.

To endure a minor insult for the sake of greater plans was wisdom. But endless tolerance, blind endurance—that was not patience, it was cowardice. Yielding without measure only invited contempt and emboldened the oppressor.

If this were Yan Shifan, he might endure it, like Goujian of Yue enduring humiliation for future revenge.

But Luo Longwen? He was nothing but a dog at Yan Shifan’s feet. To tolerate him was meaningless—worse, it would only make the cur bark louder.

Besides, this man had shown open hostility from their very first meeting. There was no hope of turning an enemy like him into an ally through concession. To endure him would only feed his arrogance.

If this had merely been a playful jest, Zhu Ping’an could have laughed it off. He could have taken it as a test of temperament, a chance to show magnanimity.

But this—this was not jest. It was habit, contempt, insult. To bear it would be to declare himself weak and powerless.

He cast his eyes briefly around the hall. Every gaze fixed upon him carried amusement, curiosity, or judgment. He knew what this was—it was more than a toast. It was a test of dignity and character. If he yielded here, his reputation as the imperial Zhuangyuan would mean nothing. From this day forth, he would be seen as timid and ineffectual—unfit for the court, unfit even for local office.

He glanced again at Luo Longwen. That grin was obscene, vulgar, a reflection of the man’s soul itself.

For his own dignity— and perhaps, to redeem that pitiful soul— Zhu Ping’an decided it was time to teach the man the meaning of respect.

Amid the laughter and mockery, Zhu Ping’an hiccuped softly, feigning greater drunkenness than he truly felt. He blinked lazily, his lips curving into a faint smile.

“Drink? Of course, I can drink,” he said, rising to his feet, his tone faintly slurred but steady.

A smirk flickered across Luo Longwen’s face, and several onlookers shook their heads, disappointed. So the famed Zhuangyuan would bend after all.

Zhang Juzheng, who had been watching keenly, sighed. The corners of his lips curled into a cold sneer as he turned away, muttering under his breath. Zhu Lu, Zhu Lu… this one is not worth your counsel. He speared a slice of venison and dropped it back onto his plate with disdain.

But before Luo Longwen could savor his triumph, before the crowd could even finish shaking their heads, Zhu Ping’an spoke again.

“Drink? Certainly,” he said slowly, “but before we do, I must first ask Lord Luo a small question.”

“Oh?” Luo Longwen chuckled carelessly. “Go ahead.”

“May I ask,” Zhu Ping’an said with a mild smile, “does Lord Luo wish to be a gentleman—or a petty man?”

The question silenced the air for a heartbeat, then drew snickers from the bystanders. What kind of question was that? No one would ever admit to being a petty man. They thought Zhu Ping’an was only trying to buy time—delaying the inevitable humiliation.

“Of course I’d rather be a gentleman,” Luo Longwen replied mockingly. “What sort of foolish question is that?”

Zhu Ping’an’s smile deepened, calm and unhurried. “Ah, a gentleman. Then surely Lord Luo has heard the saying—‘The friendship of gentlemen is as light as water.’ Since Lord Luo aspires to be a gentleman, how could I possibly make things difficult for him? Allow me, then, to offer you a cup of tea instead of wine.”

He lifted a small porcelain teacup from the table, cradling it respectfully in both hands, and bowed slightly.

For a moment, Luo Longwen simply stared, dumbfounded.

Around them, soft laughter rippled through the hall. So that’s his trick, the crowd thought, eyes gleaming with new amusement.

Even Zhang Juzheng paused mid-bite, setting his chopsticks down again, his eyes narrowing on the youth who now held the teacup with quiet poise.

Luo Longwen forced a grin. “Hah! Well then, for the honor of drinking with the Zhuangyuan-lang, I don’t mind being a petty man for once!”

He shoved the brimming wine jar forward again.

“Oh, I see,” Zhu Ping’an said lightly, his tone almost gentle. “In that case… I don’t drink with petty men.”

With that, he smiled faintly, sat back down, and picked up his chopsticks once more. Suddenly, the dishes before him looked delicious again.

“I don’t drink with petty men.”

The words fell like a blade wrapped in silk, cutting deep. Luo Longwen’s face turned an ugly shade of red, his breath catching in his throat.

He could do nothing. He had been the one to use the mismatched cups. He had walked himself into the trap with his own arrogance.

And then, like an echo from earlier in the night, the words Zhu Ping’an had spoken at the start of the feast returned to him—

‘My tolerance is small. If I drink too much and behave improperly, I ask the elders’ forgiveness—and I trust Lord Yan will protect me.’

Only now did the meaning strike him. That line… that was Zhu Ping’an’s shield, laid carefully in advance, ready for moments just like this.

A quiet murmur of laughter spread through the hall, not mocking Zhu Ping’an this time—but admiring him.

For in that moment, the Zhuangyuan-lang, with a single smile and a cup of tea, had turned humiliation into victory.