"Doesn't matter what kind of wine it is. Just for the fact that you drank it yesterday with a smile on your face, I respect you as a real man." Xiahou Yuan said expressionlessly. Since coming back yesterday, he'd dipped his finger in it several times and tasted it several times, and every single time ended with his face twisted in unspeakable agony.
That bitterness was downright despair-inducing. No wonder—essence pressed from burst gallbladders and pounded Coptis, fused and extracted together, then mixed into wine and dissolved and blended. Bitter enough to make a man lose hope.
Xiahou Yuan prided himself on having a firm will. Back then, he was sure he could've downed that gourd of bitter wine, but his whole face would've definitely twisted up; that kind of bitterness was simply unbearable.
