Chapter 64: Winter Blossoms

Hearing the words “blossom,” Luo Gan was both startled and delighted, mingled with confusion. Unconsciously, he had forgotten to sit and instead leaned in closer to Wang Ji, eager and impatient to learn more, even the slightest clue that might help resolve their current predicament.

“Did you just say the flowers would bloom?”

Wang Ji’s drunkenness had entirely vanished; he appeared more spirited than ever. When it came to Jiao Ge’s fine wine, there was likely no one more anxious than Wang Ji to obtain it.

“The strange phenomenon in Anping County lies precisely here: to restore vitality to the city, the flowers must bloom anew.”

Luo Gan still doubted whether he had misheard. As autumn had turned to harsh winter, the notion of blooming flowers as a solution seemed bizarre, utterly unscientific.

“But what does blooming have to do with thawing? Can the growth of plants really influence the temperature?”

Utterly ignorant of the mysterious anomaly, Luo Gan’s confusion made Wang Ji, who was over ten years his senior, feel a surge of pride for his superior knowledge. His smugness soared as he played the sage.

“As for temperature, I know little. All I can say is: find a flower that blooms in winter, and the strange chill plaguing Anping County can be dispelled.”

It was all so cryptic. Even with his good education, Luo Gan, unfamiliar with botany yet well-versed in basic logic, found it inconceivable that blossoming flowers could raise the temperature.

“I still don’t understand. Wouldn’t a fire or melting the ice be more effective?”

“A fire? Ha! Do you not think others have already tried such common solutions?”

Luo Gan wasn’t sure if anyone else had, but if the first impulse had proven effective, surely Anping—so large, with so many people—would have resolved the winter’s curse by now.

Seeing Luo Gan’s half-believing, half-doubting look, Wang Ji sneered as if to see right through him from head to toe.

“The persistent winter proves that all those methods have failed.”

“In that case, where is this flower? What secret does it hold?”

Wang Ji gazed southeast, murmuring, “In the southeast stands a great boulder. There lies my offering to the Temple of the Wine Immortal, where I pay respects to Du Kang.”

Luo Gan grew weary of such scholarly airs; Wang Ji’s words were always half-spoken, never direct or to the point, making conversation tiresome.

“Just tell me plainly—what should I do?”

“I’ve forgotten the exact spot. Drink the rest of my wine, and wherever in heaven and earth you find a fragrance like it, that’s where the winter flower awaits.”

Since it had finally been said, there was no use in wasting more time with Wang Ji. Luo Gan stood, scanning his surroundings.

“And the wine? What fragrance am I seeking?”

Wang Ji pointed nonchalantly at the cup before Luo Gan. He looked down; it was empty—he’d finished it during their chess game.

“It’s empty. Is there any more?”

“That was the last cup.”

Utterly confounded—Wang Ji, for all his refinement, was astonishingly careless. The cup was empty; how was he supposed to track the fragrance? Worse yet, in his drunken state, even if there had been a trace left, Luo Gan wouldn’t have noticed it. By the time he sobered, any remaining scent would have faded. To find some hidden place by a fleeting aroma—like a headless fly searching for treasure—seemed an impossible task.

Nevertheless, with no better plan, Luo Gan set off alone to search for the winter flower. At parting, Wang Ji bowed respectfully.

“The true affection of a dear friend depends on you! Recall the wine’s aroma with all your heart, and you will find it.”

True affection—what he really wanted was the fine wine! The irony of his sudden courtesy, after so much bluntness, left Luo Gan both annoyed and amused, but he forced himself to bid Wang Ji farewell with feigned warmth.

The evening sun lingered, refusing to sink, casting a mournful, desolate light. If the heavens had feelings, perhaps they, too, would witness Luo Gan’s toil and, if not reward him with success, at least recognize his efforts.

Behind him, Wang Ji continued waving, returning to his wine in bohemian contentment. His fields, some cultivated, some left to wildness, were tended only as whim allowed.

To Luo Gan, life seemed terribly unfair. To win the life he wanted, he had to work far harder than others. Seeing Wang Ji, Luo Gan suddenly yearned for the simplicity of country living—sustaining oneself, free from constraints or obligations to others, living only for oneself. Wasn’t that also a kind of good life?

Beneath the sunset, the young man walked on alone, his subconscious guiding him southeast, toward the Temple of the Wine Immortal in search of any clue.

After some time, he finally saw a great boulder, much larger than he’d imagined—tall as a man, perched on a low hill as though guarding the land’s fortune, watching sun and moon rise and fall beside the temple.

It was a humble shrine, barely large enough for anything but a statue of Du Kang, a wine jar set before it. The place was kept clean; Wang Ji might neglect his own life, but toward the Wine Immortal’s temple, he still showed reverence.

Luo Gan had no time for reverence. He turned the temple inside out, even toppling the statue of Du Kang, digging up parts of the floor—yet found no trace of the winter flower.

“Could Wang Ji have tricked me? Wasting my time?” Luo Gan cursed under his breath, vexed by the fruitlessness of his efforts.

Yet, on reflection, Wang Ji had no reason to deceive him. If he truly wished for Jiao Ge’s wine, he would surely help him find the winter flower. Luo Gan relaxed a little; in a strange world, having a neutral party was better than facing an enemy.

Exhausted from searching, Luo Gan slumped to the ground, sweat streaming from his brow, his clothes soaked through. The endless search seemed hopeless. He wiped his forehead with an elbow; a chill wind brushed his damp body, making him shiver and sneeze.

Water seeped into the soil, which suddenly began to collapse, the earth turning to a devouring mire, swallowing up the temple and all around it!

Luo Gan, unable to dodge in time, tried to rise but slipped, falling headlong. He struggled to get up, only to tumble again, digging desperately at the ground with all his strength, trying to escape the marsh.

But the pitiless mire devoured even the temple. Luo Gan was pulled down, until only his head and one hand remained above the surface.

A wave of despair swept through him. Was this the end? Would he never save Erhu, Uncle De, or Xiao Zhi? Was he doomed to be a loser forever?

Sinking into the endless marsh, Luo Gan felt his own fragility and insignificance—utterly powerless before the forces of nature.

The mire mingled with Luo Gan’s stifled tears. In that critical moment, his thoughts returned to Erhu’s righteous defense of him against the Dragonfolk, to the lakeside at Wangqing Pavilion, to his vow with Lady Jun Tao to create a world of equality between men and women… All of it, unfinished, could not end here!

A fragrance of wine drifted to him—the scent of osmanthus wine from Wang Ji’s home.

In the mire, his left hand seemed to burn with heat. Luo Gan struggled with all his might; in a flash of will, his right hand conjured the Scarlet Dawn Sword!

He slashed at the mire, and instantly it ceased to swallow him. Plunging the blade into the ground, he braced himself and stood, his left hand bursting through the earth.

In his left hand, he held a bouquet of flowers—neither quite peony nor lotus, their petals resplendent, pure as jade, blooming with radiant fervor.

Instinctively, Luo Gan knew: this must be the winter flower!