Chapter 373: Magnificent Indeed, Shen Lian
Zhu Ping’an had been the first— but he was by no means the last.
The air at the banquet had grown wild and reckless. The wine burned bright in every man’s veins, and even the normally aloof Yan Shifan had been swept up in the fever of the moment. Flushed with wine and arrogance, he suddenly grabbed a spoon from the table with his fat, ringed fingers and grinned wickedly.
“Let’s make this more interesting,” he declared, twirling the spoon between his thick fingers. “Whomever the handle points to must drain a full goblet!”
Laughter and cheers rose around him as he set the spoon spinning upon the polished table. It twirled and shimmered in the candlelight, spinning faster than anyone expected, then slowing, slower still, until the handle began to waver… and finally tilted toward Zhu Ping’an.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Luo Longwen, sitting nearby, allowed a sly smile to bloom on his face—he thought fortune had finally smiled upon him.
But just as the spoon was about to stop, someone’s elbow brushed the table. The spoon shuddered, wobbled once more, and spun again—half a turn this time—before finally coming to rest, this time pointing directly at Luo Longwen himself.
The smile froze on Luo Longwen’s lips. His expression withered instantly, as if frost had struck a budding flower. He could only stare at the spoon in disbelief before raising his eyes toward Yan Shifan, silently pleading for mercy.
Yan Shifan only chuckled, raising his pudgy hand and pointing playfully. “Come now, Han Zhang, drink up.”
There was no escape. Luo Longwen’s shoulders slumped in defeat. With the resigned air of a condemned man, he lifted the great goblet and drained it in several desperate gulps.
The moment he set it down, his cheeks flushed crimson, his head spun, and yet—when he looked toward Zhu Ping’an—there was a flicker of green jealousy in his bleary eyes.
Zhu Ping’an could only return the look helplessly, as if to say, How is that my fault?
Yan Shifan, by now thoroughly enjoying himself, kept the game going. Again and again he spun the spoon, and each time its trembling handle sealed another man’s fate. Laughter, shouting, and the clinking of goblets filled the hall as the candlelight wavered over flushed faces and half-spilled wine.
After several rounds, nearly everyone had been forced to drink. Everyone, that is, except one man—a thin, scholarly-looking official whose luck, it seemed, was blessed by heaven itself.
This was Ma, a minor censor known to all in the capital for his strange affliction: he could not tolerate even a single drop of alcohol. One sip, and his face would flush bright red; two, and he would collapse in a drunken stupor.
Yan Shifan’s single, narrow eye gleamed with mischief as it fell upon Ma. “Lord Ma,” he drawled, “your luck tonight is truly something.”
Ma forced a humble smile and shook his head slightly. “I hardly dare call it luck, my lord.”
“Then why don’t we put that luck to the test?” Yan Shifan laughed, giving the spoon a showy twirl in his hand before setting it spinning once more on the table.
All eyes followed its movement—until suddenly, in the midst of its spin, Yan Shifan’s fat hand slapped down upon it, halting it mid-turn. The spoon’s handle pointed unmistakably at Ma.
“Ah, seems fortune’s turned on you at last,” Yan Shifan said with a grin so smug it begged to be struck.
“Lord Yan, I…” Ma began, his voice cracking with bitter helplessness.
“What is it, Lord Ma?” Yan Shifan’s lone eye fixed on him like a predator sizing up prey.
“Your Excellency, I… I truly cannot drink,” Ma stammered. “My constitution is weak. Even a drop will make me faint. My physician has warned me countless times never to touch alcohol.”
Yan Shifan only gave a high, dismissive “hmph,” toying with his cup as he watched Ma with a cruel glimmer in his eye.
“Lord Yan, please, I beg your understanding. I have abstained for years now. Pray, have mercy,” Ma pleaded, his words halting and pained.
Yan Shifan sneered. “What’s this? Are you saying that a single cup of wine is too much respect to pay me?” He tapped his own cheek mockingly. “My face isn’t worth that much, then?”
The words hit like a slap. There was nothing more shameless than this—he was forcing humiliation upon an old man and calling it honor.
Under the oppressive gaze of that single, burning eye, Ma’s thin frame seemed to shrink. At last he sighed, picked up the goblet with trembling hands, and murmured, “Then… I shall merely wet my lips. I beg Your Excellency’s forgiveness.”
He touched the wine to his mouth, barely moistening his lips before setting it down again. Instantly his face flushed scarlet, his brows twisted in pain, and he swayed slightly where he sat. Clearly, he had spoken the truth—he truly could not drink.
But Yan Shifan only scoffed. “That’s it?”
Before anyone could stop him, the corpulent minister rose, his heavy steps shaking the floor as he strode over to Ma. He seized the goblet with one hand—an arm as thick as Ma’s entire leg—and clamped the other around the poor man’s nose.
“Hahaha! If you can’t drink yourself, allow me to assist you!”
Ma’s eyes went wide. Cut off from breath, his mouth opened in reflex—and Yan Shifan took the chance to pour the entire goblet of wine down his throat.
“Nggh… glug… glug…”
The frail censor flailed helplessly, utterly overpowered. The scene looked grotesque—like a bear forcing liquor down a chicken’s throat.
Zhu Ping’an’s fists clenched under the table. Every nerve in him screamed to intervene. Yet the power difference was too vast—it would be like an egg thrown at a boulder. If he spoke now, he would only bring ruin upon himself, and perhaps upon Ma as well. So he swallowed his anger, jaw tight, eyes cold.
A quick glance around told him all he needed to know. Except for Shen Lian, whose face was taut with restrained fury, everyone else sat in silent indifference. Even Zhang Juzheng, seated nearby, calmly picked up his chopsticks and took another bite as though nothing had happened.
Ma, meanwhile, choked and sputtered, wine spilling from his mouth and even from his nose. Most of it still went down, though, and within moments his head lolled, his limbs gave way, and he collapsed bonelessly beneath the table.
Yan Shifan dusted his hands, laughing boisterously.
At that moment, a sharp sound split the heavy silence—swish!—as Shen Lian rose to his feet, his sleeve flicking through the air. The movement drew every eye in the room, even Yan Shifan’s.
No one knew what he meant to do.
“I’ll have a turn with this little game,” Shen Lian said coolly, his voice edged with steel.
He reached for the same spoon Yan Shifan had used and set it spinning upon the table with a flick of his wrist. Then, before it had even slowed, he pressed his hand down—just as Yan Shifan had done—and stopped it cold.
The handle pointed directly at Yan Shifan himself.
For a heartbeat, the hall was dead silent.
Then Shen Lian’s lips curved. “My, my. What unfortunate luck, Lord Yan,” he said with a laugh that carried the bite of a blade.
Yan Shifan blinked in disbelief. His hand rose as if to wave it off, words of refusal on his tongue.
But Shen Lian cut him off, voice thunderous. “How laughable! Others must drink at your command, yet you, Yan Shifan, are above your own game? Others may fear you—but I, Shen Lian, do not!”
The words rang like a sword drawn from its sheath.
Before anyone could move, Shen Lian filled a goblet to the brim, strode across the floor, and seized Yan Shifan’s nose just as the man had done to Ma moments before.
“Just now, you so graciously served Lord Ma,” Shen Lian said, voice low and dangerous. “Allow me to return the courtesy on his behalf.”
And with that, he forced the wine down Yan Shifan’s throat.
Yan Shifan flailed in outrage, but his bulk was soft and untrained. Shen Lian, though a scholar, was also a man of action—a warrior among the Jinyiwei, famed for both pen and sword. Within seconds, the arrogant minister was pinned, coughing and sputtering as the wine ran down his fat cheeks.
The hall was stunned into silence. Not a soul dared to breathe.
Zhu Ping’an could only stare, dumbstruck.
“Ha ha ha! Splendid! That was splendid!” Shen Lian roared with laughter, tossing the empty goblet back onto the table with a clatter. “Now that is a drink worth having!”
Still laughing, he turned on his heel, snatched a wine flask from a stunned maid’s hands, and strode out into the night—drinking as he went.
Magnificent indeed, Shen Lian!
His tall figure vanished through the doorway like a lone hero into the wind, reminiscent of Jing Ke walking toward the icy river of Yi.
The room remained frozen, the echo of his laughter lingering long after he was gone.