Chapter Thirteen: Pain Level Eleven!

The medical profession classifies pain into ten levels: First level, pain that barely registers, such as a mosquito bite. Second level, exceedingly mild pain, like being pricked by a pen tip. ... Ninth level, intense pain, such as gallstones or kidney stones, so severe it can cause vomiting. Tenth level, unbearable agony—the torment of childbirth, where women feel as if they are dying and coming back to life. Yet, reality proves there exists an eleventh level of pain in this world: the pain of shattered manhood. It is ten times fiercer than braving blades or boiling oil, tormenting not only the flesh but the soul.

“Roar! Roar!” The weasel leapt four feet high, then crashed hard to the ground, curling up tightly like a shrimp, clutching his vital parts, writhing across the floor in agony. His jaw had been dislocated, so he could not even cry out, only emit beast-like growls. Tears, snot, and drool poured from his face, and the excruciating pain told him both his 'treasures' were destroyed—his family line extinguished. Though unable to utter a word, as he rolled about, the weasel glared furiously at Li Zhao, vowing in his heart to exact vengeance tenfold, a hundredfold, even at the cost of his own life.

... What now? Should one simply wait for him to recover and unleash mad vengeance? Or, perhaps, finish the matter completely and silence him forever? The laws of Great Tang are strict: murderers must pay with their lives, even noble scions are no exception. Yet if he is spared, how should one face this predicament?

Rest assured, Li Zhao is not reckless. Since he dared to deliver that kick, he naturally has a plan. With swift precision, he tore his own clothes to shreds, slapped himself a dozen times until his cheeks swelled as red as date cakes, then clenched his fists and punched his nose hard, blood streaming out. Smearing it across his face, Li Zhao sat on the ground and wailed for help: “Help! Help! The steward Huang is beating me! Boo hoo!”

“Help! The steward Huang is beating someone! Quick, come!” Outside the side room, Bai Mo's shouts rang out as he dashed toward the main hall, startling the feasting guests.

Feigning suffering, playing the victim, turning the tables—this was Li Zhao’s strategy. The weasel was no fool; he understood instantly that reason would not save him now. Overwhelmed by pain and rage, his eyes rolled back and he fainted.

So much the better—now there was no witness.

“Damn it! Today is my birthday banquet—who dares cause trouble here? Who would dare to strike someone? Where is the decorum?” With angry rebuke, Li De and Lady Zheng arrived at the side room, followed by guests eager for spectacle, for gossip is universal.

The scene shocked them all: Li Zhao’s small face was swollen and smeared with blood, tears streaming, clearly beaten. Steward Huang lay on the floor, unharmed save for a froth at his lips; the situation suggested he was the aggressor, yet why was he unconscious?

“Yulang, what happened here?”

“Uncle, Aunt, I beg you to stand up for your nephew. Boo hoo... The matter is thus: when you took charge of the family estate, you made an agreement to provide me each month with ten measures of fine rice, ten bolts of silk, and twenty strings of copper coins for daily expenses. But since Steward Huang took over, he has continually withheld these, and it has been ages since anything was sent to the ancestral hall. I understand the household’s expenses are heavy and times are hard, so I never complained, enduring a life of poverty.

Today is Uncle’s forty-second birthday, relatives and friends have gathered to celebrate. I wanted to buy a gift to honor you, but my family is so poor I couldn’t even scrape together a meal. Left with no choice, I sought out Steward Huang to request my monthly allowance. Not only did he refuse, he beat me, swelling my face and breaking my nose. I told him, ‘If you strike me, I’ll tell Uncle.’ But Steward Huang said Uncle must heed Aunt because her skill is great and her pillow talk persuasive—he’s experienced it himself... I don’t believe a word of it. Aunt doesn’t know martial arts, what skill could she have? And what is pillow talk anyway?”

Li Zhao spoke tearfully, his pitiful appearance immediately winning sympathy from most present. What a well-behaved child! His inheritance seized, his allowance withheld, barely able to eat, yet he still thinks of buying a gift for his uncle and gets beaten for his trouble.

In contrast, Li De and Lady Zheng seemed heartless—seizing the child’s estate and mistreating him. Look at the clothes he wore: dirty and tattered, worse than a street beggar.

Everyone present looked down on Li De and Lady Zheng, and pitied Li Zhao deeply. Some soft-hearted women even shed tears.

“Whew!” Li De’s face turned green with anger, Lady Zheng’s cheeks flushed with shame, her jaw puffed like a giant toad. If there were a crack in the ground, they’d have gladly crawled in, so embarrassed were they.

Though furious, neither doubted Li Zhao’s words, for he was a timid and honest child, never known to lie. Besides, phrases like “great skill” and “pillow talk” were not things a child would say—surely the steward’s own words. How could that scoundrel blab such nonsense?

“Ahem, Yulang, you say Steward Huang beat you, but why is he unconscious?”

“Uncle, he was in the midst of his tyranny when suddenly he shrieked, foamed at the mouth, collapsed, and began convulsing—it looked like an epileptic fit.”

“Oh!” Looking at the steward curled up and frothing, he truly resembled an epileptic. Elders say those afflicted seem normal but may suddenly seize when agitated; perhaps he lost control during his violence and his hidden illness struck.

Now the matter was clear, but how should it be resolved? Li De knew well that, under so many eyes, if he didn’t handle it properly, their family scandal would be all over town by dawn, fodder for every gossip, and his own reputation would be ruined.

No, he could not shoulder this disgrace.

“Rest assured, nephew, I will see justice done!”

“Husband, shouldn’t we wait until Steward Huang wakes and question him?”

“What’s the point? Isn’t this shameful enough? Someone, drag Huang away, slap him a hundred times, break a leg, and banish him from Qianlong Hill—never let him set foot in our home again, wretched creature!”

“Yes!” Several servants carried away the unconscious ‘weasel.’ The second steward, Hou Si, personally delivered a hundred hard blows with a shoe sole, transforming a once handsome face into a battered mess, teeth knocked out, irreparably ruined.

Then, with a thick jujube wood stick, they broke a leg, stuffed him in a sack, and tossed him out into the wild—live or die, it was none of their concern.

When his leg was broken, the ‘weasel’ awoke in agony, uttered not a word, and was promptly knocked out again by Hou Si’s ruthless hand—after all, with the chief steward gone, the second steward’s promotion was imminent.

Meanwhile, Li De glared fiercely at Lady Zheng. He had long suspected her affair with the steward, but relied on her powerful family and thus turned a blind eye. Now that the steward was destroyed, he felt a measure of satisfaction.

Besides, neither spouse was innocent, so neither could accuse the other—two turtles, perfect for each other!

Li De, grinding his teeth, ordered money and provisions sent to the little ancestral hall, repeatedly assuring the guests that the withholding of monthly allowance was solely the steward’s doing, unknown to himself. Whether the guests believed him or not was their affair.

He also had servants wash and dress Li Zhao in clean clothes, comforting him with kind words—uncle and nephew, appearing harmonious.

“Nephew, today is your uncle’s fortieth birthday—let’s all go to the main hall and celebrate as a family.”

“Yes, I must bow and pay my respects to Uncle.”

“Haha!”

The company returned to the main hall, arranging themselves according to status, with Li Zhao seated in a prominent position as host. The banquet was sumptuous—chicken, duck, fish, and meat aplenty, with a whole roast lamb, crisp on the outside and tender within, its aroma filling the air.

Li Zhao did not stand on ceremony, but ate heartily, tearing into the feast with gusto, his appetite only increased by the forced smiles of Li De and Lady Zheng, whose pain and humiliation made the food taste even sweeter.

Sated, he rose to take his leave, and casually took a jar of fine wine with him.

... Having crippled the steward and vented his anger, and reclaimed much of his allowance, Li Zhao was in high spirits and decided to celebrate.

He brought home the jar of wine—a local specialty called “Spring Pear Blossom.” It is brewed in early spring from white rice and blooming pear flowers, blending floral fragrance with the aroma of wine for an unforgettable taste.

“To our health!” In the small courtyard, the three raised their cups and drank. Aunt Qing closed her eyes to savor the wine, Bai Mo stuck out his tongue—clearly his first time drinking.

Li Zhao frowned; the flavor was weak—was it counterfeit? Then he remembered: in this era, distilled spirits did not exist, only fermented wines, with alcohol content never exceeding twenty percent. This “Spring Pear Blossom” was under ten percent, much like modern beer—no wonder it felt so mild!

Beer is not meant for tiny cups; Li Zhao switched to a large bowl and drank deeply, his whale-like thirst earning Aunt Qing’s admiration: “Like father, like son; your father was a prodigious drinker, and you are no less so!”

After three cups, Bai Mo was finished; for a novice, even weak wine was too much. After eight, Aunt Qing stopped, her face flushed, looking even lovelier by lamplight.

Only Li Zhao kept drinking—three bowls, six bowls—almost the whole jar, yet he felt nothing, not even a hint of redness.

This was odd. Alcohol is alcohol; after so much, he should feel tipsy. Why was there no effect?

Not quite no effect—his belly felt a bit bloated. After a trip to the latrine, Li Zhao understood.

The human body contains an enzyme, alcohol dehydrogenase, which breaks down alcohol into water and carbon dioxide for elimination; the amount of this enzyme determines one’s tolerance. Some rare individuals have levels ten or even dozens of times higher than normal, allowing them to metabolize alcohol rapidly and never get drunk—like the famed “Colonel of Drink” who outdrank a dozen Russian representatives.

Li Zhao, it seemed, belonged to this rare breed. Whether to rejoice or lament, he wasn’t sure.

The blessing: with such innate talent, he could drink thousands of cups and never fall, king of the wine realm.

The curse: he would never know the taste of drunkenness, so the ancient saying “to dispel sorrow, only Du Kang” was rendered meaningless for him.

... As the saying goes: a punch to strike, a kick to defend!

Though venting his anger by crippling the steward, Li Zhao had made enemies of Li De and Lady Zheng—they would surely seek revenge.

Thus, for the next few days, Li Zhao kept a low profile and stayed vigilant, even sleeping with his father’s Tang sword at hand, in case of unexpected danger.

Sure enough, trouble arrived within days!