021 Wine Contest

Forsythia remained oblivious to the approaching danger and was only focused on getting the two men in front of her drunk.

After several rounds, Black Peter finally collapsed, and Yigol Foster exhibited signs of intoxication as well.

"Haha, Yigol Foster, you've lost again, one more drink and you'll be done for."

Yigol Foster lit a cigar for himself, and after exhaling a puff of smoke, smirked devilishly, "Honey, you're on the verge too."

Forsythia did feel a little dizzy now. She looked at the scattered bottles on the floor and felt the ground sway.

Something was not right; her alcohol tolerance wasn't usually this bad. Even against nine heavy drinkers, she could drink them under the table without batting an eye.

But at this moment, even feeling dizzy was the least of her concerns...

Damn!

She had once experienced this sensation before.

On her wedding night with Gem Atkinson, when she had drunk a glass of water in the presidential suite, and then, and then...

What about tonight?

Startled, Forsythia regained some of her senses.

She knew instantly it must have been Yigol Foster's doing and inwardly cursed her luck, though she was grateful that her mind was still lucid. She steadied herself, touched her forehead, and said, "Yigol Foster, you cannot go back on your word, you lost, so you must drink." Once he drained his cup, he'd probably be completely drunk, then perhaps she could use the chance to avoid tonight's impending crisis.

Laughing at the sight of Forsythia's childish yet stubborn expression, Yigol Foster found her incredibly endearing. He accepted the cup of alcohol and drained it. With this drink, he felt himself teeter on the edge of complete intoxication, especially as Forsythia was swaying too.

"Let's continue," Forsythia decided to keep stalling in hopes that Yigol Foster would eventually collapse.

"Honey, we're both drunk; let's not do this anymore. Let's go to sleep."

"No, we need to keep drinking."

Yigol Foster's affection for Forsythia wasn't a sudden burst of infatuation, but something ingrained deep in his bones. Seeing her determined to keep drinking, his fondness for her grew even more. He backed her decision and said with gusto, "Alright, let's continue."

They moved on from playing rock-paper-scissors to guessing whether there was an odd or even number of peanuts. Surprisingly, Forsythia had excellent luck and Yigol Foster was losing continuously. Eventually, aggravated by the constant losing, Yigol Foster refused to play. So, Forsythia proposed a poetry challenge, where each quoted poem had to contain the word 'wine'. If someone couldn't come up with a line, they would have to drink.

"Alright." Yigol Foster replied, a cunning smile on his face.

"When did the bright moon first appear? I raise my cup and question the heavens!"

"I encourage you to drink yet another cup, for there are no old friends beyond the western gates."

"Rancid smells of wine and meat come from the houses of the rich, while the bones of the poor freeze by the roadside."

"For a pot of clear wine worth ten thousand, a jade platter of rare delicacies is worth even more."

"..."

"..."

Being hailed as a child prodigy, Forsythia had endless poems at the tip of her tongue. Though Yigol Foster was well-versed in the entertainment realm, he had also received a proper education, and with the help of alcohol, he managed to quote a fair number of poems. Back and forth, they both ended up quoting twenty poems each containing the word 'wine'.

"Darling, we won't be able to determine the winner if we keep going like this. Let's call it a night and get some sleep."

Her head spinning, Forsythia insisted,"No, we need a winner."

Seeing the woman he loved stubbornly glaring at him, Yigol Foster agreed, even if his head was spinning, he was willing to compromise,"Alright, let's continue."

"It does not matter if wine makes spring sleep heavy, wagering with literature eliminates the fragrance of tea. Yigol Foster, it's your turn."

"... Haha, Yigol Foster, hurry up, it's been five minutes already. If you can't come up with a poem, you have to drink."

Hearing her crisp voice, Yigol Foster admitted he couldn't think of any poems, and good-humoredly drank a cup of wine.

"Suddenly, presenting a cup of wine, day and night I happily hold it. Yigol Foster, are you running out of ammo?"

"Haha, Yigol Foster, you've run out of ammo, lost again. Drink up, drink up..."

Wine doesn't get you drunk, you get you drunk. Seeing the glass before him, Yigol Foster took another gulp. This drink made him feel unstable.

He couldn't drink anymore, otherwise he'd screw things up, "Honey, stop messing around, I concede. Let's go to bed."

Forsythia pinched her leg, the pain keeping her awake, "No, you haven't lost until you've passed out. We'll continue." She had to make sure he passed out to ensure her safety. As for why he kept listening, allowing her to continue as she pleased, her mind was too fuzzy for her to understand.

Yigol Foster was unaware of Forsythia's thoughts. After two more drinks on top of his already heavy drunkenness, his intoxication level increased by two, making him about 90 percent drunk. Yet, he didn't forget his important task and once again told her, "Honey, stop messing around, no more drinking."

"Let's do one final round, whoever loses drinks, and then we can stop." Forsythia, confident that Yigol Foster was almost drunk, suggested.

Yigol Foster agreed, "Alright."

As it happened, Yigol Foster lost again. He drank the cup that Forsythia handed him without hesitation, threw the glass on the floor, and said, "Honey, let's go to sleep."

Forsythia reckoned he couldn't hold on much longer, so she laughed and said, "Alright, no more drinks."

Teetering, the pair climbed upstairs. Yigol Foster kicked open the door to the first room – no bed. He then kicked down the door to the room next door, which was Forsythia's bedroom. He swiftly shoved Forsythia down on a rather plain bed.

Forsythia grunted as she fell, the pain cleared her mind a bit.

Yigol Foster, however, plopped down at the edge of the bed, announcing, "Honey, you don't know this, but I once won a gold medal at the Flying Flower Poem contest. The theme was 'Wine.' I could quote a lot of poems about wine, like, 'Glowing wine in a goblet bright in the moonlight, urging the horseman to drink with music melody.' Or, 'I dismount and offer you a cup of wine, asking you where you're heading.' Or, 'Laugh away your fears when drunk, mortal life is but transient.' And also, 'Who will fame please after one's death when one could cherish the wine held in hand before one's death…'"

Once Yigol Foster began, he didn't stop, reciting over twenty or thirty famous poems, each and every one containing the word 'wine.' Seeing no response from Forsythia, he moved closer to her. Feeling his breath, Forsythia turned her head, "Ugh, you stink."

Stink?

Yigol Foster stopped, sniffed the breath in his palm, and nodded: hmm, a strong smell of wine, it did stink.

Ugh, to leave such an unpleasant impression on the woman he loved so dearly was unforgivable!

Feeling regretful, he laughed, "Alright, wait here, I'm going to wash up."

"I...I want to wash too, I stink too," the last bits of Forsythia's consciousness told herself that the cold water could help her stay awake for a bit longer.

Hearing her words, Yigol Foster who was heading towards the bathroom, turned around with a look of surprise on his face, "Okay, let's shower together then."

While staggering into the bathroom, Forsythia made a pretend fall, her hand conveniently landed on the tap and turned it on, releasing a shower of cold water.

The icy water sharply awakened Forsythia, giving her a little more strength.

"Sweetheart," Yigol Foster pinned Forsythia against the wall, the cold wall stimulating her to even more clarity. But Yigol Foster said, "Be careful, you'll catch a cold," while adjusting the temperature of the water at the same time.