Chapter Twenty-Six: The Hero

When Chen Jiu heard this place name, a strange expression crossed his face at once.

Jingyang Ridge... wasn’t that the very spot where Wu Song slew the tiger?

Memories of his childhood flooded back—how tense and excited he'd been watching the tale of Wu Song and the tiger. Now, a trace of anticipation crept into his heart. If this truly was the legendary site, meeting that hero would surely be a great fortune in life.

Of course, it was somewhat far-fetched. After all, Wu Song belonged to the Northern Song Dynasty of China, while Chen Jiu was now in the Great Jin—different dynasties, worlds apart, with entirely different realities.

After briefly entertaining this little fantasy, Chen Jiu asked again, “The ‘beast’ you speak of—is it a white-browed, fierce-eyed tiger?”

At his words, the old farmer seemed to recall something, his face changing slightly as he nodded repeatedly. “Indeed! There are hunters from our village who have returned alive from the ridge. They say the great tiger stands nearly nine feet high, is over ten feet long, built like an ox, running with the force of a storm. It lurks in the dense grass and woods, preying solely on men who cross the ridge!”

Chen Jiu’s heart skipped a beat, and his face betrayed his concern. If he wished to reach Jingyang County, he’d have to cross Jingyang Ridge...

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Thank you, kind sir. I’ll take my leave.”

The old farmer was silent for a moment, then asked, “You truly mean to cross the ridge?”

Chen Jiu replied, “I must go to Jingyang County. Aside from crossing the ridge, there’s no other way, is there?”

The old man sighed. “Just days ago, a scholar from another place was killed by the tiger—torn to pieces, his remains scattered everywhere... If you truly insist on crossing, perhaps you should rest at the village inn. Wait until there are twenty or thirty people gathered, and cross at midday with the group. That would be wise.”

Hearing the old man’s earnest advice, warmth filled Chen Jiu’s heart. He bowed. “Thank you, kind sir. I’ll remember your words.”

With that, he took his leave and hurried away.

...

When the sun was at its zenith, Chen Jiu saw a low thatched cottage ahead, smoke curling from its roof, surrounded by a sparse grove of trees.

Beside the cottage hung a banner bearing five bold words: “Three Bowls, Don’t Cross the Ridge.”

Chen Jiu’s heart leaped. So there really was such a country inn.

But would the hero be inside?

With an uneasy heart, Chen Jiu approached the rural inn.

Just then, the inn’s servant came grumbling out.

“That fellow’s so stubborn! I told him three bowls and no more, but he acts as if I mean him harm! Infuriating...” The servant muttered, but when he looked up and saw the young Taoist in his robe, his expression changed at once. He glanced into the inn, then smiled. “Honored Taoist, are you here for a meal or a room?”

Chen Jiu was a little embarrassed. His purse was empty; neither food nor lodging was possible.

He bowed. “I only wish for a bowl of cool water... and, if you have any leftover flatbread, I wouldn’t mind.”

The servant paused, then looked Chen Jiu over and seemed to understand. He nodded. “Please, come in.”

But just then, a loud voice roared from inside. “Innkeeper! I told you to bring me more wine! See, have I collapsed after all I’ve drunk?!”

Chen Jiu’s heart gave a start.

The servant sighed and called, “Coming, coming!”

Chen Jiu followed him inside.

The inn was small, with just three or four square tables. Smoke from the kitchen drifted through the air, stinging Chen Jiu’s nose.

He searched eagerly with his eyes, and finally spotted a man seated at the innermost table, his back to the room.

Even from behind, one could see his imposing bearing.

The man shifted the cudgel resting by his side, then turned slightly and barked, “Why so sluggish? Where’s my wine? Bring another three bowls!”

Chen Jiu didn’t act rashly. He chose a seat by the door and sat, silently observing.

He looked so much like him—far too much. For a moment, Chen Jiu wondered if he’d fallen into the world of “Water Margin”...

Soon, an old man and a youth emerged from the kitchen. The old man carried a jar of fine wine, the servant brought a small plate of beef and a bowl of clear water, which he set before Chen Jiu.

“Taoist, we only have beef here. Please make do,” said the servant.

Chen Jiu was moved. “Blessings of the Grand Sovereign upon you. Thank you.”

The servant nodded with a smile and hurried off.

Meanwhile, the old man poured three bowls of wine, which the man at the back immediately downed in a few gulps, grabbed a hunk of spiced beef, stuffed it in his mouth, and exclaimed, “Good wine!”

A look of astonishment flashed in the old innkeeper’s eyes—the hero had already drunk fifteen bowls!

“Good sir, you mustn’t drink any more,” he urged.

But the man boldly tossed his words aside: “What, are you afraid I’ll get drunk? Or that I can’t pay?”

The innkeeper paled, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s just that lately, a white-browed, fierce-eyed tiger has appeared on the ridge, preying on travelers. Seeing you drink so much, I thought you might rest here, and cross with the crowd when more people arrive.”

He glanced at Chen Jiu as he spoke.

But the man only sneered. “So what if there’s a tiger? I’ll kill it! Bring my wine!”

The innkeeper sighed heavily and went to fetch more.

The servant at the door muttered, “There was a group who crossed earlier. You all came too late...”

Chen Jiu remained silent. He sipped the water, feeling refreshed, then gazed at the plate of beef, swallowing his saliva.

At that moment, the hero seemed to notice him. Turning his head, he called, “Hey, little Taoist, care for a bowl?”

Chen Jiu’s heart skipped. He was still chewing his beef.

Looking up, he finally saw the hero’s face.

He was strikingly handsome, his brows thick and bold, eyes gleaming like cold stars—a true hero’s visage.

Chen Jiu’s heart beat faster. “Thank you for your kindness, but I—” he began.

But the hero cut him off with a sneer, “Don’t dither like a woman! Come, drink!”

He took the wine jug from the innkeeper and, carrying a large plate of beef, strode over to Chen Jiu.

Before Chen Jiu could protest, the man emptied his bowl of water onto the floor and filled it with wine.

“Here! This bowl is on me.”

Chen Jiu looked at the wine before him, then, without a word, raised it and drank.

How strong could ancient wine be? It wasn’t distilled—just homemade, low-alcohol stuff, he reasoned.

But the moment it went down, a rich, mellow flavor—unlike anything he’d ever tasted—filled his senses.

The hero laughed heartily. “Well done! Another bowl!”

The old innkeeper slapped his thigh in despair.

Chen Jiu drank two more bowls, then asked, “May I ask your name, good sir?”

With a flourish of his cudgel, the man replied seriously, “I am Wu Song.”

At these words, Chen Jiu was visibly shaken, his eyes brimming with delight.

“I am Chen Jiu. To meet a hero such as yourself today is true fortune.”

Excitement welled within him. Perhaps this wasn’t the world of the Northern Song, but the same man and the same place existed here—surely, that was fate.

Wu Song smiled and pointed at Chen Jiu’s belly. “This is Jingyang Divine Wine. Who knows what miracles may happen after drinking it!”

Chen Jiu frowned, puzzled.

Yet strangely, after three bowls, not only did he feel no drunkenness, he wasn’t even full—as if the wine had vanished inside him...

Though suspicious, he nodded to Wu Song. “Thank you, Brother Wu, for your hospitality.”

Hearing himself called “brother,” Wu Song laughed heartily. “I like you, little Taoist—not like this innkeeper, always hiding his true intentions!”

The innkeeper said bitterly, “Good sir, I only have your best interests at heart. It’s already late—don’t risk the ridge now!”

Wu Song grabbed his cudgel, tossed back the last three bowls, and pointed at the misty path ahead. “Don’t try to scare me with tales of tigers. If there is one, I’ll kill it myself!”

With a snort, he strode outside, though his steps already showed the unsteady sway of a man feeling the wine.

Clearly, the alcohol was beginning to take effect.

Chen Jiu quickly weighed his options. Wu Song slaying the tiger at Jingyang Ridge—it was just a story. He had seen real tigers before—a single swipe could snap a grown man’s bones, let alone fancy moves from a legend...

But this was his only chance. Waiting for a crowd tomorrow was risky and not his way; he wanted to leave Xinyang County as soon as possible.

Besides, with his own abilities, handling a tiger shouldn’t be too hard.

Decision made, Chen Jiu bid the innkeeper farewell and hurried after Wu Song.

The innkeeper watched Chen Jiu’s figure disappear into the mist and sighed deeply.

“It’s over... It’s all over now...”