Yan Changqing subconsciously reached for the flask at his waist, then remembered he had already given it to Jiang Shouzhong and the others.
At that moment, a young monk tossed a flask over.
Catching it, Yan Changqing wore a peculiar expression.
The monk Wu Qing, shyly scratching his head, chuckled and said, "The abbot likes to drink on the sly, and I've had a taste myself and found it quite pleasant, so I stashed some away."
Yan Changqing couldn't help but smile, unscrewed the flask, and sniffed.
He then tossed the flask back.
"Ask away,"
said Yan Changqing.
The monk Wu Qing hastily caught the flask with both hands, steadied himself, and asked, "Your sword, what can it cut through?"
"What do you think?"
Yan Changqing threw the question back.
The monk Wu Qing tilted his head and pondered seriously for a moment before replying, "A strand of hair."
Yan Changqing burst into laughter.
The monk Wu Qing looked at him puzzled: "Don't you believe it, Mr. Yan?"
