Chapter 81 — Declaration
After receiving Lord Bai Jiu’s orders, Bai Mingyu stopped playing small games. He immediately opened thirty taverns along both sides of the railway.
He was clever—he could hear what Lord Bai Jiu really meant: this wasn’t about making money, it was about taking back the land. The money was nothing to the Bai family, but reclaiming those twenty li of ground—that would be a matter of pride.
Bai Mingyu gathered several merchants from Nanfang and together opened these taverns, forming a bustling little village. Each tavern was small but stood shoulder to shoulder, each displaying a clear sign outside. At night, their lit plaques gleamed brightly.
The Russians, long suppressed under the prohibition laws, saw alcohol as contraband. Drinking freely had become a luxury. Black-market liquor was sold at outrageous prices. So when they spotted these Chinese taverns, they swarmed in.
They didn’t even need fancy side dishes—sometimes a plate of pickled cucumbers or olives was enough to make them drink an entire bottle of vodka with joy.
Bai Mingyu’s vodka was excellent: clear, pure, and potent, brewed with birch sap and honey—the Russians’ favorite combination. Though Nanfang had no mountain spring water, the brewers used purified and distilled water. Combined with mechanized production, the wine was both cheap and abundant. The quality soon spread by word of mouth—one drunk telling ten, ten telling a hundred—and customers poured in.
Bai Mingyu managed five of the taverns personally.
He was more mature now, having once visited Russia and learned their customs. So when setting up, he made sure to prepare large drinking cups—Russians disliked small cups and cared little for the cup’s material or shape, as long as it was big enough.
The side dishes were simple: generous portions of bread and cheese. Each Russian customer came with a bottle of vodka in hand, drinking boldly and freely. Some even abandoned cups altogether, drinking straight from the bottle.
They drank for one reason only—the love of strong liquor.
It came from the depths of their hearts, a genuine passion for vodka.
At first, some Chinese tavern owners tried to liven up the place with “drinking games” or poetic toasts. But those refined amusements meant nothing to the Russians. Drinking alone was already pure joy.
Some sang and danced when drunk, others stood and made loud proclamations. If someone’s words were particularly good, the rest would cheer and pound the tables. And often, one or two of the more sober drinkers would jot down these drunken sayings—like early bards, capturing poetic bursts of inspiration born from vodka’s fire.
Behind the counter, the shopkeeper noted the drink orders, smiling and shaking his head.
Bai Mingyu and Xie Jing were on inspection that day. As soon as they entered, they were greeted by a riot of laughter—Russians clapping, shouting, laughing uproariously.
“What are they saying?” Bai Mingyu asked.
The shopkeeper bowed slightly before chuckling. “They’re drunk, sir. Talking all sorts of nonsense. As long as they don’t fight, it’s harmless fun.” He gestured toward the noisiest table. “That one over there said something that got everyone cheering.”
Xie Jing turned to Bai Mingyu. “Didn’t you stay in Russia for a while? Can you understand them?”
“I was only there a few months,” Bai Mingyu huffed. “You think I learn languages as fast as you?” Then, curious again, he asked the shopkeeper, “So what did the foreigner say?”
The man grinned. “He used a saying—something like: ‘Drinking is the greatest pleasure of the Russian people.’”
Bai Mingyu laughed. “That’s true enough! I’ve never seen anyone drink with such joy. Ah, sometimes I envy them—they’re so free. Not like me, always having to make money.”
He sighed, hands tucked in his sleeves.
Xie Jing ignored him and focused on checking the ledgers. “Are the supplies holding steady?” he asked.
Bai Mingyu hadn’t relaxed in days. Ever since Lord Bai Jiu came to Nanfang, he’d been running around nonstop, barely having time to eat properly. Watching Xie Jing calmly working beside him, he couldn’t help thinking how easy things used to be when they worked together—Xie Jing always handled everything perfectly, inside and out.
If it weren’t for Lord Bai Jiu’s authority, Bai Mingyu would’ve tried to steal him back.
A capable person like Little Xie—who wouldn’t want him?
When Xie Jing finished balancing the accounts, Bai Mingyu nudged him with an elbow, teasing: “Hey, Little Xie, remember that fellow, Cao Yunzhao?”
“Of course. Why?”
“I just thought—if he were here today, watching these Russians drink, he’d definitely say something pretentious. What was it again?”
Xie Jing smiled faintly. “He’d say drinking reflects the Russian national spirit—an expression of their Dionysian worship, a return to nature and unrestrained vitality.”
Bai Mingyu burst out laughing, clapping his hands. “Exactly! No one else could spout nonsense that fancy!”
He was still laughing when his smile froze.
Across from Xie Jing, Bai Mingyu caught sight of Lord Bai Jiu walking toward them.
Having been beaten enough times by him as a child, Bai Mingyu’s body reacted before his brain did—he went stiff, voice suddenly sharp: “Little Xie, you finish here. I’ll check the other shops!” And before Xie Jing could respond, he vanished.
Xie Jing sensed something was off, turned—and saw Lord Bai Jiu.
The man studied him for a few seconds, then said evenly, “You seem to know Cao Yunzhao quite well.”
“…!!”
“I—I only heard people talk about him,” Xie Jing stammered. “I was just repeating something amusing.”
Bai Rongjiu gave him a look, said nothing more.
The master still hadn’t fully recovered from his cold; a few quiet coughs escaped him. Xie Jing quickly poured a cup of hot tea. Bai Rongjiu accepted it, asking about the tavern operations. Though his tone was calm, his guidance was patient and thorough—no less detailed than what he gave Bai Mingyu.
Xie Jing followed his instructions. Though he worked quickly, after a while he worried aloud, “Master, it’s crowded here. Why don’t you head back first?”
“It’s fine,” Bai Rongjiu said.
So Xie Jing buried himself in work until everything was done. He presented the final ledger, and after Bai Rongjiu nodded approval, Xie Jing sighed in relief and reached for a cup beside him.
He took a gulp—and immediately choked. His face flushed red.
Bai Rongjiu dipped a finger into the cup and tasted it. Vodka.
Xie Jing had mistaken Bai Mingyu’s drink for water. He coughed, tongue numbed. “I—I must’ve grabbed the wrong cup,” he said, words slurred.
The liquor hit him fast. Heat flooded his chest; his face burned. The world sounded muffled. Bai Rongjiu said something, but Xie Jing had to lean close to hear.
Lord Bai Jiu knew his limits—one cup and he’d fall. When Xie Jing started burrowing into his chest like a sleepy cat, he simply gathered him up and left through the back door.
In the car, Xie Jing fidgeted, unaware how obvious his drunk movements were. He caught Bai Rongjiu’s hand, fingers interlacing. Bai Rongjiu eventually just enclosed both hands in his palm.
Xie Jing lowered his eyes, silent—then began tracing characters in his master’s palm, stroke by stroke.
“Enough,” Bai Rongjiu rasped.
Xie Jing leaned close, warm breath brushing his ear. “Didn’t you say you wanted to test my writing? I’m showing you.”
And then—perhaps thinking it natural—he brushed his tongue lightly against Bai Rongjiu’s ear before retreating, face flaming, head buried in Bai Rongjiu’s shoulder.
By the time they reached the mansion, Xie Jing could barely stand.
It was the second time he was carried into the bedroom.
When someone came to help, Bai Rongjiu waved them off. “Boil some hot water. Prepare a hangover soup,” he ordered.
Upstairs, Xie Jing struggled again, so Bai Rongjiu had to coax him: “All right, no carrying. I’ll just hold your hand. You’re not drunk, I know.”
But then Xie Jing suddenly said, “Master, I have something to say.”
“Speak.”
He gripped the stair railing, inhaled deeply, and shouted:
“Everyone from the East Courtyard—come here!”
The marble hall echoed with his voice. Servants rushed over, thinking the master had summoned them.
When everyone had assembled, Xie Jing nodded solemnly. “Good. All here.”
Bai Rongjiu let him be, half amused.
Then Xie Jing turned, yanked Bai Rongjiu closer by the arm, looped an arm around his neck, and kissed him.
It landed clumsily on his cheek.
Still holding him, Xie Jing looked down at the gathered crowd, eyes bright and clear:
“I like the Master! I want to spend my whole life with him—grow old together!”
The servants: “……!!”
For a moment, even Bai Rongjiu was stunned. Then, his shock melted into laughter.
—
The next morning, Xie Jing woke with a splitting headache, memory hazy. He turned to see Bai Rongjiu emerge from the bathroom with a towel.
“Master,” he mumbled, “did I… cause trouble again yesterday?”
Bai Rongjiu raised a brow. “More than a little. From the moment we walked in, you refused to be carried, clung to the railing, refused to drink your soup unless I fed it to you spoon by spoon—and as for sleeping…” He smirked. “You even tried to—”
Xie Jing slapped a hand over his mouth, face red.
Bai Rongjiu bit his finger playfully. “Now you’re shy? Where’s that boldness from last night?”
“…What did I do?”
Bai Rongjiu took his hand, kissed it. “You stood on the stairs, kissed me, and declared before everyone that you’re mine for life. I couldn’t stop you.” He sighed, smiling. “You were so strong I had to let you.”
Xie Jing groaned and buried himself under the blanket, wishing to vanish.
Bai Rongjiu chuckled, coughing lightly on purpose. As expected, Xie Jing peeked out again, hair messy, eyes bright and obedient. “Master, remember to take your medicine,” he whispered.
Bai Rongjiu’s heart softened entirely. He bent down, kissed him twice, smiling against his lips.
—
That day, though reluctant to leave, work awaited.
The Bai family’s caravan was departing for the provincial capital, escorting Shang Yulou’s opera troupe as well. Since both sides were familiar with Xie Jing, he was the best person to handle the handover.
He dressed neatly, descended the stairs beside Bai Rongjiu—and blushed all over again remembering last night’s “declaration.”
At the foot of the stairs, the servants fell silent.
Bai Rongjiu called them over, his hand resting on Xie Jing’s shoulder.
“Last night, Jing’er was drunk,” he said calmly, “but not everything he said was drunken talk. You all know how I treat him—differently from others. What he said reflects my own intention as well. From now on, you will treat him as before. No extra ceremony, and don’t spread rumors outside the East Courtyard. Understood?”
“Yes, Master,” everyone replied.
Their gazes toward Xie Jing softened.
The people of the East Courtyard served only Bai Rongjiu. They would never gossip beyond these walls. And they understood: if any other woman were suddenly brought in as mistress, the household would be thrown into turmoil. But Xie Jing was different—he’d grown up among them, once saved the Master’s life, and was one of their own.
Realizing that, the servants’ respect deepened—and from that day, Xie Jing truly became the one Lord Bai Jiu favored alone.
