Except for those specific days, it was always quiet here during the day, and at night, it was even more silent. Edward Brooks casually found a room near the temple gate, lit a candle, and discovered there was a table and some stools inside. Although it was a bit dirty, Edward Brooks didn’t have high standards—after a quick cleaning, he sat down alone and started drinking by himself.

Edward Brooks didn’t even know when his alcohol tolerance had become so unfathomable. He used to drink, but only about one bottle of beer, and at most a cup—about two taels—of homemade rice wine. But recently, whether it was to numb his nerves or to forget the pain at the back of his head, his drinking capacity had started to increase. When he first arrived at the school, he could only handle half a jin of strong baijiu, but now, he could drink two bottles of one-jin, high-proof baijiu in a single night. This baijiu was 52% alcohol—most people would be considered heavy drinkers if they could handle half a jin. In a place like Shumuling Township, being able to drink a whole jin of baijiu would make you a drinking expert, but now Edward Brooks, without making a fuss, could drink two jin.

The baijiu was a sorghum liquor produced by the Shumuling Distillery—fragrant and strong, and very popular among the locals. After arriving at Shumuling Middle School, Edward Brooks quickly grew fond of this cheap, mellow-tasting liquor.

He opened a bottle, set out some marinated tofu and peanuts he’d picked up at the supply and marketing cooperative, chewed a peanut, took a sip of baijiu, thought of nothing and did nothing—what a comfortable life. Only during times like this could Edward Brooks forget everything and fully enjoy himself. But unexpectedly, he had barely taken two sips when someone suddenly flashed into the room—like a gust of wind, but even faster, as swift as a ghost. Startled, Edward Brooks grabbed the bottle on the table, ready to fight back.

“Greetings, benefactor, there’s no need to panic. I am the abbot of this temple,” said the newcomer quickly upon seeing Edward Brooks’s alarmed expression, afraid that if he spoke too late, Edward Brooks would pounce on him in desperation.

In fact, Edward Brooks was already prepared to fight. Who else but a bad person would suddenly appear in a place like this in the middle of the night? Although he had never studied martial arts, growing up in the countryside had made him strong. When he jumped up just now, he had already grabbed the bottle from the table—if the Daoist had been a moment later, Edward Brooks would have smashed the bottle over his head.

“Who are you?” Edward Brooks forced down his fear and asked in a deep voice.

In his panic, Edward Brooks hadn’t even heard what the man had just said.

“I am the abbot of this temple,” the Daoist said, putting his hands together and bowing to Edward Brooks.

By the candlelight in the room, Zhu Daiguang finally got a good look at the visitor. His long hair was tied up in a bun on top of his head, held in place by a chopstick. His face was ruddy, with a huge, red, bulbous nose in the middle, and his beard was scraggly, as if it hadn’t been trimmed in months. Even more outrageous was his Daoist robe—under the candlelight, it actually shimmered. Edward Brooks had good eyesight and quickly realized it wasn’t the robe that was magical, but that the grease on it was so thick it could be used as a mirror. He was a total slob.

“May I ask your Daoist name?” Edward Brooks saw that he meant no harm and was the owner of the place, so he quickly calmed down.

“A name is no name, a title is no title. Benefactor, you may call me Unknown Elder,” said Unknown Elder, who seemed quite sociable. He sat down at the table, grabbed a few pieces of marinated tofu that Edward Brooks had brought, and started eating.

“Unknown Elder?” Edward Brooks wasn’t sure if that was really his name or if he was just joking, but seeing that the man didn’t treat him as an outsider, he slowly sat back down. In any case, having someone to drink with was better than drinking alone.

“Benefactor, I was drawn here by the aroma of your wine. Would you be willing to share a cup?” Unknown Elder said with a grin. Although he was a Daoist, he didn’t follow many ascetic rules—he was the type to let wine and meat pass through his body, while keeping the true self in his heart.

“This wine is just local baijiu—how could it have any aroma?” Edward Brooks smiled. He had only come to drink alone, and besides the two bottles of baijiu and a pack of marinated tofu and peanuts he’d bought at the supply and marketing cooperative, he hadn’t even brought a cup. So he simply placed the bottle in front of Unknown Elder.

At school, aside from teaching, Edward Brooks rarely interacted with others. Where there are people, there are intrigues; when meeting others, only speak three-tenths of your mind, never give your whole heart away—this was something he’d read in a martial arts novel, and after starting work, he quickly realized it was a profound truth. Now, with this Unknown Elder—a complete stranger with no conflicting interests—he actually felt willing to chat.

“No matter what kind of wine, as long as it’s within a hundred paces of me, I can smell its aroma and trace it to its source,” Unknown Elder said, already unceremoniously grabbing the bottle. He tilted his head back and gulped down several big mouthfuls, as if afraid someone would snatch it away. In the blink of an eye, nearly half the bottle was gone.

“Daoist, you really can hold your liquor,” Edward Brooks thought to himself in amazement. This baijiu was a full jin, and 52% alcohol—just one of his gulps must have been at least three taels. This Unknown Elder could truly be called a heavy drinker.