The wine, carrying a faint fragrance, slid down his throat. Ryan Carter smacked his lips and couldn’t help but frown.

William Harris walked over with a hearty laugh, sat down beside him, and mocked, “See? Can’t handle it, can you? If you have another cup, you’ll probably be hugging the table and chairs, treating them like beauties—stroking and kissing them.”

As the wine went down his throat, the aroma lingered slightly, with a hint of sweetness. It wasn’t rice wine, but barley wine—the former being sauce-aroma type, the latter light-aroma type. Ryan Carter immediately identified the variety. But, it was just so bland and tasteless, not even as robust as modern beer.

Wine in ancient times really was low in alcohol. Ryan Carter shook his head again and muttered to himself, “Bland, truly bland to the extreme.”

He was just talking to himself, but William Harris heard and couldn’t help but sneer, “What do you know? What we sell here is the famous Yuhu Spring, renowned throughout Luoyang and even the entire Tang Dynasty, and you call it bland? Xingyang has Tukuchun, Fuping has Shidongchun, Jiannan has Shaochun, Yingzhou has Fushui wine, Wucheng has Ruoxia wine, Lingnan has Lingxi wine, Yicheng has Jiuyun wine, Chang’an has Xishi Qiang wine, and there’s also Sanglejiang imported from Persia, Malang wine from Arabia, but here in Luoyang, we have Yuhu Spring! This top-notch famous wine, and you call it bland? Ignorant, truly ignorant.”

Ryan Carter had just spoken offhand, with no intention of disparaging the famous wines of the Tang. For someone used to strong modern liquors, of course the wines of the Tang would seem bland and tasteless. The flourishing Tang Dynasty was a kingdom of poetry and a land of wine; the famous wines William Harris mentioned were, to Ryan Carter, as renowned as Maotai or Wuliangye in later generations.

Ancient people drank wine with proper vessels—“Without wine vessels, one cannot drink; the size of the vessel matters.” The Tang people always valued fine food and beautiful utensils, and when it came to drinking, they cared even more about the elegance of the wineware. The Yang family’s Yuhu Spring was one of the most famous taverns in Luoyang, and the wine vessels used were, of course, exquisitely crafted ceramic jue, cups, and goblets.

Ryan Carter smiled indifferently, ignoring William Harris’s mockery. He simply lowered his head to look at the hexagonal, double-handled cup in his hand, and with professional habit, gently swirled the pale green wine, then leaned in to sniff it. He smiled, half to himself and half in response to William Harris’s disdain: “The heat was a bit off. If the fermentation had been more thorough, the flavor would be better.”

William Harris was quite familiar with Ryan Carter, having been classmates at the Luoyang official academy, and knew him well. Seeing him “putting on airs” and critiquing the family’s prized Yuhu Spring like a seasoned connoisseur, even with a hint of “regret” in his tone, and noticing how he was being ignored, William Harris recalled the shameless times Ryan Carter had come to borrow money for pleasure, and sneered even more, “You blockhead, drinking this wine is truly a waste of such fine brew. If it weren’t for our old classmate ties, I’d have thrown you out by now.”

It was the first time he’d been called a blockhead. Ryan Carter didn’t look up, but smiled bitterly to himself. Glancing around at the other drinkers, he sighed inwardly, raised his cup, and downed it in one go. “Newly arrived,” it was best not to stir up trouble. If he was to be called a blockhead, so be it. After all, it was just a body—what did it matter to him, even if he’d been a criminal?

Seeing Ryan Carter’s calm and indifferent expression, “unmoved,” William Harris grew even more dissatisfied. He simply stood there, nagging like an old woman, listing all of Ryan Carter’s disgraceful deeds: freeloading at Chancellor Liu’s mansion, tricking Young Master Zhang of the West Market out of three strings of cash, peeping at Xiang Yulou’s songstress bathing and getting beaten up by the brothel keeper…

These shameful “past events” surfaced in his mind, became the honeyed barbs in William Harris’s words, and turned into the coarse jeers and laughter of the nearby drinkers. Ryan Carter could finally bear it no longer. He stood up in anger and shouted, “Shut up!”

William Harris had been speaking with great pride, but was startled by the sudden outburst. He glanced at Ryan Carter’s bulging veins and trembling sleeves, and glared, “What? Are you feeling wronged now?”

Ryan Carter wanted to storm off, but then thought better of it. He had already become one with “Ryan Carter,” and seeing the scoundrel’s past deeds, he knew there would be much more “public opinion” to face. If he couldn’t even endure a round of scolding, how could he survive in this identity? With this thought, his anger subsided, and he slowly sat back down.

Seeing William Harris standing in front of the table, face red and neck bulging like a fighting cock, fanning himself gracelessly with his folding fan, Ryan Carter smiled faintly. “Brother Mengyang, I just want to quietly enjoy a good drink. May I?”

“Talent is for the emperor, fine wine for those who appreciate it. For someone like you—no tolerance, no knowledge, no taste—drinking this fine wine is simply a waste.” Seeing Ryan Carter’s attitude “soften,” William Harris decided not to argue further, and turned away with a cold laugh, heading for the counter.

A top-ten, industry-ranked master wine taster, famed as the “Triple Crown Wine Drunkard,” who could identify wine by scent as easily as a woman by her perfume, was now being called “no tolerance, no knowledge, no taste.” Ryan Carter was stunned at first, then subconsciously pressed his lips together, and a proud retort slipped out: “If I don’t understand wine, then there aren’t many in this world who do.”