The old man is surprised. After having a day almost empty of earnings, this youngster shows up, arrogantly throwing his coins onto the table and demanding his best drink.
To be frank, he didn't seem to mind the attitude that much. His business had not been seeing much success lately. His savings were tight. Every day he woke up not knowing if he would have enough money to feed himself for the rest of the week.
As such, any customer that appeared in his little cottage was more than welcome. He really couldn't afford to be picky about it. Money was still money at the end of the day. He could complain about their attitudes all he wanted later over a warm soup.
Seeing the large amount of coins on the table, his heart started beating faster. That much money could cover his expenses for the following two weeks.
Trying his best to conceal his excitement, the old man looked back at the young man.
He looked, well, unique. His clothes were nothing more than scraps at this point, barely holding on. His hair was disheveled, and his skin stained with dirt. He looked worse than some random hobo you might find in the streets during the night.
It made the vendor wonder exactly how someone like that had gotten his hands on so much money. Not only that, but to spend that money on booze, the very same thing that probably led his life down this very path, was nothing short of tragic.
Still, that had nothing to do with him. It was no business of his where exactly his clients got their money. Whether it was clean or dirty, whether it was stained with the misfortune of others or not, at the end of the day, money was money, and he needed every piece he could get.
As unbecoming as it may seem, drunkards were, at this point, his only source of revenue.
Pushing these thoughts away from his mind, the old man focused on the task at hand.
He put on a warm smile and responded.
"Oh, are you sure you can handle it, young man? If you take a sip of my best brew, you'll get so addicted you won't be able to drink anything else for the rest of your life."
Lao's grin grew larger.
Crafty old fox.
"That's quite the statement, old man. By all means, bring out your best brew. If it's half as good as you are at bragging, it'll be something worth trying out."
"Very well. I'll go get it from the back. You can pull up one of those chairs and get comfortable as you wait."
The old man gives a light bow and goes on his way.
Lao follows the old man's advice and takes one of the chairs. He had been walking around the city the whole day, and while his body wasn't particularly tired or strained from such a low level of exercise, sitting down still allowed him to relieve the tension in his body.
Sounds of glass bottles clinking start coming from the back of the store. It seemed like the bottle the owner had boasted so much about wasn't seeing much use, given how hard he was rummaging through his bottles just to get to it.
Eventually, though, the sounds stop and tranquility returns to the store.
Not long afterward, the owner emerges from the back of the store. His clothes are slightly less organized than they had been previously. The smile on his face, however, doesn't waver. It persists with the same intensity it had before he left.
His steps are, however, clearly more thoughtful than they had been before.
And the reason for that change is obvious if you look at his arms.
The bottle of wine rests in the shopkeeper's hands, its aged appearance stark against the bright shop lights. A thick layer of dust clings to the once-clear glass, rendering the label nearly illegible and the amber hue of the bottle barely discernible beneath the grime. The cork, slightly bulging, hints at the years of aging within, and the musty scent wafting from the bottle truly shows its age.
It was definitely... something?
"Oi, old man, are you serious? That's the best wine you have in your store? I could probably get something better to drink by scooping a cup of water from the sewers," prods Lao.
The expression on the old man's face doesn't change at all in response to the comment.
He places the bottle on the table.
A layer of dust that had been covering the bottle flies up in all directions as the bottle contacts the table.
Just as Lao was about to complain again, the old man finally speaks up.
"Young man, have you never been told not to judge things based on their appearance? You still have much to learn if you let such notions cloud your judgment," he says.
Lao looks at the bottle again. Then at the old man's face. Then back at the bottle. This repeats a few times.
A slight chuckle escapes his lips.
"Trying to act like a wise sage now, old man? Don't think you're going to fool me with that lousy spiel. Let the judgment come after I've verified the quality for myself."
'This punk!?!?!' thought the old man.
This, however, never reached the surface. His expression remained as calm as the surface of a lake.
With a smooth motion, he grabbed the top of the bottle, positioning his thumb directly below the cap.
Applying a bit of force...
The cap came flying off the bottle.
A slight smirk appeared on the old man's face as he looked down at the open bottle.
That smirk instantly disappeared, replaced by an expression of worry, as the old man lifted his head, staring in Lao's direction.
"Young Master, please forgive me. I had no clue the bottle cap would come flying out at such speeds in your... direction."
His little pre-prepared speech came to a halt before it could end properly.
That was because, as soon as he lifted his head to look at Lao, he noticed that the cap had not hit him. And it wasn't because he had miscalculated the trajectory. Had that been the case, he might have been disappointed for not seeing his plan come to fruition in its entirety, but he still would have managed to scare that arrogant brat.
However, instead of a shocked and scared face, the old man was met with Lao, who had a slight grin on his face, holding the bottle cap between two fingers right in front of his head.
'How did he catch that? Was it luck? No way, that can't be it. If he had simply blocked the cap with his hand, I could chalk it up to luck. But to catch it between his two fingers at this distance, no amount of luck would be enough to pull something like that off.'
His hands start getting sweaty. A suitable explanation was crossing his mind at that moment. It was a fairly terrifying explanation, one that he was trying as hard as possible to deny.
'A cultivator.'