Chapter 18: The Drunken Master

Under the blistering midday sun, a scorching wind howled across the barren plains. Dust and sand rose in thick clouds, veiling the landscape in a blinding storm.

Then came an eerie whistling—shrill and wavering—floating from the hillside at the far edge of the plain. It was a strange tune, wild and tuneless, as if trying to outmatch the dry wind in madness. But just as abruptly as it started, the whistle stopped.

In its place, a burst of manic laughter echoed across the hill.

Standing atop the hill was a young man clad in white. His long hair fluttered in the hot wind. He turned his head toward the source of the laughter—just as a fragrant liquid came flying at him! If he hadn’t leapt back with lightning speed, his face would’ve been splashed with the strange substance.

The liquid missed, striking a large tree instead. Ssshhh! The hissed and cracked heard from the force of the impact.

The young man’s eyes widened in shock. He had barely walked half a day, and already someone was trying to kill him!

He snapped his head toward where the liquid had come from. But before he could focus, a sudden downpour rained from above like a thunderstorm! Reacting fast, the white-robed young man thrust his right hand into the air.

Bwoooossshhh!

A powerful gust surged upward, scattering the liquid midair—some droplets reversed back to the sky, others veered sideways. Leaves were perforated, tree trunks punctured as if pierced by steel nails!

That strange laughter echoed again—cackling all across the treetop canopy. And yet, the young man couldn’t spot the source. Whoever was laughing was close, the sound clear—but invisible.

He scratched his head, now truly intrigued. His sharp gaze swept the landscape. Then he locked onto a towering tree, easily over thirty meters high. The laughter came from up there—but its source remained hidden.

“You up in the tree!” the young man barked. “If you dare to pick a fight, show yourself!”

Without warning, he struck his palm upward.

WHOOOSH!

A blast of wind like a typhoon struck the massive tree. Branches shattered. Leaves scattered like feathers in a storm. In the blink of an eye, the majestic tree was stripped bare, left bald and skeletal.

And there sat an old man draped in a white sash.

From that height, his features were hard to make out, but his long beard flowed down to his chest, fluttering in the wind like a banner. In his lap sat a bamboo gourd, about a meter long. Another identical gourd was strapped to his back.

Both gourds brimmed with a rich, fragrant liquor—so potent, so intoxicating, they could only be described as… divine. That was the very liquid he had sprayed earlier!

By all rights, the force of the youth’s earlier strike should have blasted the old man from his perch—or at least inflicted internal injuries. But astonishingly, the bearded elder remained seated, cross-legged and carefree, sipping his liquor and chuckling as if nothing had happened!

The youth’s eyes narrowed in fury, though he restrained himself from acting rashly.

Back on Mount Gede, his master had once mentioned a legendary figure—an eccentric hermit who wandered the martial world some forty years ago. A man known to appear and vanish at will. A man of the righteous path, using his powers only for good.

If memory served… this was the man they called the Drunken Immortal.

And yet, why would such a righteous legend attack unprovoked with his liquor?

“Old man!” the youth called out, his voice vibrating with internal force to reach the treetop. “Unless my eyes deceive me, I stand before a martial legend—the one known as the Drunken Immortal?”

The elder stroked his beard, took another swig, and burst into a wheezy laugh.

“Young man! Sharp eyes, I’ll give you that. Not many could recognize me after eighty long years! But tell me—would you accept this old man’s humble invitation to join me atop this tree and share a sip of my heavenly wine?”

“Heavenly wine,” he called it. And truly, few drinks could rival its fragrance and flavor.

The young man smiled. “You’re too kind. But, I’m on urgent business today… But perhaps next time, I’ll gladly accept your generous offer. Still, I’m honored to meet one so famed throughout realm.”

“Ahh, you’re flattering me now!” the Drunken Immortal chuckled. “I’ve been watching you since you entered this barren plain. I waited until you reached me, and now you refuse to drink? Perhaps my wine isn’t to your liking? Not fragrant enough, maybe?”

The youth paused, reconsidering. A quick drink and chat wouldn’t delay him much.

He sealed his lips, spread his arms, bent his knees—and in a blur, shot into the air like an eagle. Within moments, he landed atop the treetop, now as wide and flat as a round table. Despite the height, the air was cool and refreshing.

“I accept your invitation then,” he said, settling on a knotted branch stump.

“Hehehe! A wise choice, young man,” the old man beamed. “No harm in enjoying fine wine and a breathtaking view!”

Indeed, from atop the tree, the plains stretched endlessly—arid, yet strangely beautiful.

The Drunken Immortal handed one bamboo gourd to his guest.

“You drink wine often, boy?”

“I’ve… tasted it before,” the youth replied.

In truth, this was his first time even seeing wine, let alone drinking it. He received politely, while the elder took up the other and resumed admiring the view.

“Go on, take a sip!” the old man encouraged. “But be warned—this is pure, potent stuff. If you’re not used to it, it might knock you out cold. Or worse—send you tumbling off this tree!”

The youth laughed and brought the gourd to his lips. Just a small mouthful flowed down his throat—and instantly, his whole body warmed. His vision sharpened. His mind calmed.

“Well?” asked the old man.

“Your wine is exquisite, Elder. Truly worthy of its name—heavenly wine!”

The Drunken Immortal fluttered, clearly pleased. “Where do you hail from, lad?”

“Just came from Jatiwalu…”

“Ugh. A rotten village full of thieves,” the elder muttered. “And most of those thieves are locals!”

The young man furrowed his brow. If the Drunken Immortal knew what went on in Jatiwalu, why hadn’t he stepped in?

As if reading his thoughts, the old man said, “Bah! I’ve grown tired of petty squabbles and stinking village feuds. Let them stew in their own misery. Those people don’t even want to be helped. Things will sort themselves out… eventually.”

He downed another mouthful of wine.

After a pause, the young man asked, “Elder… is this giant tree your home?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because if it is, then I, a mere youngster, have shamefully ruined it. And I owe you an apology.”

The Drunken Immortal burst out laughing, wine dribbling from his mouth.

“You’ve got manners, boy. I like that. Worth the whole year I’ve waited up here! You’d make a fine match for my disciple!”

He laughed and took another sip, sneaking a glance at the youth.

The young man, however, blushed in surprise. What kind of weirdo is this?! he thought.

He took another sip to cover his embarrassment, then handed back the gourd.

“I’m grateful for the drink, Elder. It’s truly exceptional. But I must be on my way now…”

“Aww, come now. The sun hasn’t even shifted. The breeze is pleasant, and the view is still grand. Why rush?”

The youth smiled. “I believe I’ve seen enough for today. But I promise—next time, I’ll return your kindness properly.”

The Drunken Immortal slung both gourds over his back and clapped the young man on the shoulder.

“Not so fast, lad. You’ve yet to meet my disciple! The perfect match for you! Come on, let’s go!”

Before the youth could react, the old man grabbed his arm, and together they leapt down like two soaring eagles. Once on the ground, the youth quickly pulled his arm free and bowed respectfully.

“Until we meet again, Elder. Thank you for your hospitality.”

But he had barely taken a few steps when—whoosh!—his body was yanked backward.

A silken thread had wrapped around his waist—cast by none other than the Drunken Immortal!

“I told you, don’t be in such a hurry,” the elder grinned. “You haven’t met my disciple yet…”

If it were anyone else, the youth might’ve lashed out with a string of curses. But he held his temper.

“Elder… we’ve only just met. I’m a foolish, ugly man—not worthy of a great master’s disciple. Surely she deserves someone far better.”

He tried to walk again, but the thread held firm. Of course, he could snap it with ease—but he didn’t want to offend the elder.

Just then, a piercing whistle rang out.

A blur of purple appeared—and before the youth stood a girl dressed in violet robes, a purple ribbon in her hair. Her beauty startled him.

“See for yourself, lad,” said the Drunken Immortal. “She’s not bad, eh? What do you think?”

The youth turned red. The girl blushed deeper, bowing her head until her chin nearly touched her chest.

“She’s certainly beautiful, Elder,” the youth admitted. “But someone like me… I’m hardly a match. She should choose someone she truly likes. Farewell.”

With that, he flicked the thread around his waist. It snapped cleanly.

“You damn fool!” the old man shouted. “Run from a pretty girl, will you?! Hey, wait! You haven’t even told me your name!”

He pulled out a coil of rattan rope and hurled it toward the fleeing youth.

But the young man swung his right palm backward. A ferocious gust erupted—knocking the rope off-course and slamming toward the old man!

Knowing the wind was no ordinary blast, the Drunken Immortal leapt high into the air. The gust tore through the underbrush and smashed into a massive tree.

KRRAAAKK!

With a deafening crack, the giant tree split in two and collapsed, its fall echoing across the hillside.

The Drunken Immortal shook his head. “What a shame… I’ve let that one slip away…”

But then something caught his eye.

On the tree’s remaining stump—its roots half-exposed—three numbers were scorched into the bark:

2 1 2

The old man stared at the violet-robed girl beside him. Then he looked again at the tree. He licked his lips, deep in thought.

Those three numbers had once shaken the martial world to its core. Twenty years ago, they had spelled doom for countless evil warriors.

Could it be… the return of the mark of 212?!

The martial world was bound to erupt once more!

But the greatest question of all weighed on the Drunken Immortal’s mind—Who was that young man? Could he be the disciple of… Sinto Gendeng?

If so, then a new hero had risen.

The return of the Fire Dragon Axe 212!

He turned to his disciple. “Anggini. You’ve seen his strength. You must find him. Track him down. Do not return to the hermitage unless you succeed!”

“But Master…”

“No buts! You must catch him. He is your destined one! That man will one day rule the martial world!”

Anggini stood frozen, stunned.

“Well?! What are you waiting for?”

The girl said nothing more. With a final glance, she turned and dashed off—chasing the shadow of the youth who had left the mark of 212 on the world once again!