They say that when the Netherflower blooms, even forgotten souls remember love.
In the far corner of Wuya County, nestled at the end of South Street in the ancient Chu State, there stood a quiet inn named Qinghuan. Weathered by centuries yet dignified in silence, it had watched empires rise and fall. Its origins were unknown, but it never lacked for stories—or those seeking refuge within.
What made Qinghuan truly legendary was not its age, but a wine brewed only under the full moon: Zuihua Yin (醉花阴), Intoxicated Under the Bloom. Only ten cups were poured each month—reserved for those chosen by fate.
Some said the wine was born of longing. Others whispered it was brewed from unspoken debts or promises never kept. It was said the innkeeper's wife, Lady Liu Huanyin, still poured each cup as if waiting for someone who once promised to return.
Every dusk, the inn's second floor overflowed with listeners. They did not come for food or lodging—but for the stories of a man known only as Lao Hu.
No one knew where he came from. With phoenix-like eyes and a voice husky from wine, he wore a faded robe and carried a bamboo flute. His tales were never of war or ghosts, but of strange dreams, star-crossed lovers, and timeless legends that drifted like candlelight in fog.
That night, Lao Hu lifted a cup of Zuihua Yin, let it touch his lips, and began:
> "There once lived a boy named Ye Mingzhi, whose destiny rebelled against the heavens. From obscurity he rose, to become the Celestial Lord of the Nine Heavens.
By his side stood a mortal girl—Chu Xiyue—born of dust, yet brave enough to defy the stars."
The crowd held their breath. Lanterns swayed gently, casting shadows like falling petals. And the story took root.
In the farthest corner of the hall, a cloaked man and woman sat in silence. Though their faces were hidden, their presence was unmistakable.
The man—clad in black, cold-eyed, a sword resting by his side.
The woman—graceful, starry-eyed, her fingertip brushing the man's pale cheek.
With a mischievous smile, she leaned close and whispered:
> "Sounds awfully familiar, doesn't it, my lord?"
The man took a slow sip of wine, unbothered. "What nonsense," he muttered. "This Emperor is nothing like that."
A pause.
> "And… are you jealous?"
The woman laughed softly. The storyteller's voice echoed above them, threading past and present, dream and fate, as somewhere, perhaps, the Netherflower silently bloomed again.
They say that when the Netherflower blooms, even forgotten souls remember love.
In the far corner of Wuya County, nestled at the end of South Street in the ancient Chu State, there stood a quiet inn named Qinghuan. Weathered by centuries yet dignified in silence, it had watched empires rise and fall. Its origins were unknown, but it never lacked for stories—or those seeking refuge within.
What made Qinghuan truly legendary was not its age, but a wine brewed only under the full moon: Zuihua Yin (醉花阴), Intoxicated Under the Bloom. Only ten cups were poured each month—reserved for those chosen by fate.
Some said the wine was born of longing. Others whispered it was brewed from unspoken debts or promises never kept. It was said the innkeeper's wife, Lady Liu Huanyin, still poured each cup as if waiting for someone who once promised to return.
Every dusk, the inn's second floor overflowed with listeners. They did not come for food or lodging—but for the stories of a man known only as Lao Hu.
No one knew where he came from. With phoenix-like eyes and a voice husky from wine, he wore a faded robe and carried a bamboo flute. His tales were never of war or ghosts, but of strange dreams, star-crossed lovers, and timeless legends that drifted like candlelight in fog.
That night, Lao Hu lifted a cup of Zuihua Yin, let it touch his lips, and began:
> "There once lived a boy named Ye Mingzhi, whose destiny rebelled against the heavens. From obscurity he rose, to become the Celestial Lord of the Nine Heavens.
By his side stood a mortal girl—Chu Xiyue—born of dust, yet brave enough to defy the stars."
The crowd held their breath. Lanterns swayed gently, casting shadows like falling petals. And the story took root.
In the farthest corner of the hall, a cloaked man and woman sat in silence. Though their faces were hidden, their presence was unmistakable.
The man—clad in black, cold-eyed, a sword resting by his side.
The woman—graceful, starry-eyed, her fingertip brushing the man's pale cheek.
With a mischievous smile, she leaned close and whispered:
> "Sounds awfully familiar, doesn't it, my lord?"
The man took a slow sip of wine, unbothered. "What nonsense," he muttered. "This Emperor is nothing like that."
A pause.
> "And… are you jealous?"
The woman laughed softly. The storyteller's voice echoed above them, threading past and present, dream and fate, as somewhere, perhaps, the Netherflower silently bloomed again.