The Rat, the Wine, and the General’s Treasure Vault

I snatched Abao straight out of the sunflower seed dish.
The little meatball fit neatly in my palm—soft, round, and infuriatingly smug.

Dangling him upside down by the tail, I muttered through clenched teeth:

“You ungrateful little rat. I feed you the best, take you to brothels and opera houses for fun, and you thank me by chewing my hand like it’s a chicken claw? You call this loyalty?”

Abao puffed out his cheeks and spat out two peanuts.

Expressionless, I pinched him up again, dropped him—thud!—he landed flat on his back.
Picked him up again. Dropped him again.
After a few rounds of this, the poor creature stopped moving, paws stiff, belly-up.

“Oh? Playing dead, are we?”

I flicked his butt. He stayed still. Impressive commitment.

Just then, the theater waiter came over with a pot of tea and froze mid-step.

“Ah! You’re awake, sir!”

“...What?”

He filled my cup and plopped himself down beside me, wide-eyed with horror.

“Sir, when I came earlier to refill your tea, you were sitting straight up, staring at the stage, eyes wide open—red as blood. I called to you, but you didn’t move! You were stiff all over—dead stiff! Thought you’d gone cold!”

He shuddered visibly, lowering his voice.

“To tell the truth, my family used to run a coffin shop. I’ve seen corpses. Once we got a man who looked just like you—rigid, eyes bulging. They said he died in a brothel, too excited in the moment, poof! Gone. So naturally, I thought… you’d died watching the show too!”

“……”

Sensing my expression darken, he hastily amended,

“O-of course, a refined gentleman like yourself wouldn’t need to visit a brothel!”

I coughed twice, trying to recover what was left of my dignity.

“Indeed, I don’t go to brothels. I only just came from Chenglan Pavilion.”

The waiter’s face turned chalk white. He bolted.

His words, though, struck me.

When I’d first woken, my posture had been unnaturally stiff—like a statue, not someone napping.
And yes… my eyes had been burning.

As if I’d truly been… dead.

A chill crawled up my spine.

If Abao hadn’t bitten my finger—hadn’t dragged me out of that dream—
then in that painted nightmare, where the masked man reached for me…
would my body here have simply stopped breathing?

Had Abao actually saved my life?

I stared at the seed dish, guilt gnawing like a dull knife.

Then—movement. A streak of brown darted past.
Abao. The little hero had escaped while I was talking.

“Abao!”

I dashed after him. Behind me, the waiter shouted in alarm—probably thinking I was skipping out on the bill.

Without slowing, I tossed my purse over my shoulder. Coins clattered; I didn’t look back.

Up ahead, Abao vanished beneath a pair of swinging doors.
Two laborers were hauling crates inside, oblivious to the rat slipping through.
I waited for the moment they turned their backs—then slipped in after him.

The moment the door slammed and the lock fell, silence swallowed everything.

I crouched behind a stack of crates, heart thudding.
When no one came back, I exhaled.

It was pitch-black inside—only a few narrow cracks of light filtering down.
I crept toward a faint rustling sound and found Abao trembling behind a bale of straw.

He looked terrified. When I reached for him, he cowered, squeaking miserably, tiny paws shielding his head.

Only then did the guilt hit in full.

He’d saved my life.
And what had I done? Beaten him half to death.

If I were him, I’d bite me again just for good measure.

Cradling him gently, I whispered,

“Abao… I’m sorry. Truly. You were right, I was wrong. If it’ll make you feel better—come on, take another bite or two. No hard feelings.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Abao nuzzled my palm instead, pressing his little head against my skin.

Forgiven.

With peace restored, I finally looked around.

Stacks of wooden crates loomed in the shadows, the air thick with the scent of herbs and dried roots.
A storeroom—sealed, soundproof, solid.
If no one came back soon, I could shout myself hoarse and no one would hear.

I sighed.

“Well, that’s just perfect. Maybe they open this place once every thousand years.”

Abao, sensing my despair, dragged something toward me—a small, knobbly root.

I sniffed it.
Ginseng.

My eyes lit up.

“Abao… we’ve broken into a treasure vault!”

We feasted.

Every crate we cracked open revealed something miraculous—deer antler, bird’s nest, pearls.
I dutifully sampled each, proclaiming my findings like a connoisseur.

Abao joined in, snatching twice as much as I did, until his belly bulged and he rolled over in defeat.

By then, my mouth was dry and tingling from all the rare tonics.
Abao twitched his nose, then darted toward a tarp in the corner.
Beneath it—rows of wine jars.

“Good rat!” I laughed, grabbing two by the neck. I pried one open with my teeth and drank deep.
The burn was heavenly.

I offered the other jar to Abao.
He shrank back modestly, squeaking something that sounded suspiciously like I don’t drink.

Suspicious.

Curious, I held him up to the light, examining him head to tail.

“Ah—so you are male after all. Just acting delicate from spending too long with your sissy master, huh?”

Abao squealed in outrage, dove headfirst into the jar, and started drinking furiously.

And thus, bonded by shared drunken stupidity, we became brothers for life.

Hours later, the storeroom was a wreck. Crates overturned, jars shattered, priceless medicine scattered like trash.

I sprawled on the floor, mumbling philosophical nonsense while Abao snored beside a broken wine jug.
Most of the conversation had been one-sided—me rambling, him replying with the occasional squeak.

“Abao, brother… imagine how unlucky the owner’ll be. Two fat rats invading his precious stash…”

Abao stirred, tugged at a nearby banner, and dragged it over.

I picked it up and squinted at the faded brushwork. One crooked character gleamed under the light:
秦 (Qin).

My drunken grin froze.

There weren’t many people in Yingzhong rich enough—and bold enough—to print their own name on crates of treasure.

Only one came to mind.

General Qin An.

The Emperor’s war god. The lover of gossip and scandal alike.

And I’d just eaten half his warehouse.

The night wore on. I passed out mid-sentence.

When I woke, my head was splitting.
The faint shimmer of gold caught my eye.

I turned—and saw Abao curled up in a halo of light, glowing faintly, belly rising and falling with each snore.

For a moment, I could only stare.

“No way… Abao? You cultivating immortality now?”

I crawled closer. But before I could touch him, something unseen stopped my hand—like hitting glass.
No matter how I tried, I couldn’t reach him.

I began throwing things—jars, roots, even my shoes. Every last one bounced back.

Finally, I gave up and laughed, dizzy from drink.

“Fine! Guess I’m the mortal in this friendship, huh?”

The floor shifted under me. I slipped, fell, and everything went black.

By the time I woke again, daylight trickled through the cracks. My head throbbed.

Had I dreamed that golden light?
Abao sat nearby, blinking innocently, no halo in sight.

Maybe I’d just drunk too much.

Two days passed. The food ran out. So did the wine.

And then—

BANG!

The heavy door burst open.

Two young men in black stood framed in sunlight, staring in horror at the devastation.

Their jaws dropped.

“You—you—”

Words failed them.

Then, one found his voice, pointing at me with trembling fury:

“You brazen thief! How dare you steal from General Qin’s treasury!”