The Martial God's alcohol tolerance isn't that great, it seems. At most, it amounts to them being buddy-buddy after three cups of Daoist liquor.
"BURP!"
Wu Wang let out a burp, crawled out from under the table in his room, and, looking at the bright sky outside, stretched lazily.
That fellow, Old Wu, had disappeared somewhere. He had probably leveraged yesterday's drunken courage to visit the spire of the Goddess of Liuli. He might very well be enjoying a warm bed with company, jade-like limbs sprawled all around him.
Suddenly in the mood for a stroll, Wu Wang changed into the short jacket and long pants commonly worn by Martial Artists, slipped on a pair of comfortable cloth shoes for training, and left Uncle Shan's and Aunt Qing's large mansion.
