The cast-iron spatula in her hand suddenly felt like it weighed ten thousand pounds.
It was Jiu Zui.
The Sovereign of the Drunken Peak. Her master.
He looked exactly as he always did on their isolated mountain. He was wearing tattered gray robes that looked like they hadn't been washed since the previous century. His thick, coarse hair was tied in a messy, haphazard topknot held together by a splintered wooden chopstick.
His beard was wild, matted, and currently speckled with what looked suspiciously like breadcrumbs.
He carried a chipped clay gourd of wine slung over his shoulder, and he walked with the slightly unsteady, swaying gait of a man who considered sobriety to be a medical emergency.
He smelled of cheap fermentation, roasted meat, and unapologetic vagrancy.
Ji'an stared at him.
Her silver-flecked eyes were wide, unblinking, taking in every single detail of his feral appearance.
