Heavily. The wine — strong, the rice wine of the sword domain carrying a higher alcohol content than the upper realm's delicate vintages — went down fast. Cup after cup. The sound — 'glug glug glug' — was rhythmic. Constant.
"I can drink more than any of you upper realm people," the brother said. His words were already slurring. His face — flushed, the red spreading from his cheeks to his neck — was the face of a man who had been drinking for an hour and was pretending he hadn't. "Your wine is weak. Your men are weak. Everything up there is weak."
Tianlong smiled. The expression was patient. Amused. The smile of a man who had been drinking for millennia and knew that the outcome was predetermined.
"Is that so?" he said. His voice was mild. He lifted his cup. Drained it. Set it down. Poured another. Drained that. Set it down. The motion — repeated, mechanical, the pace matching the brother's — looked casual. Effortless.
The competition began.
