Before Zheng Qing woke up, the atmosphere inside the Sakura Pub was harmonious and peaceful.
Long slender vines hung down from the ceiling, with clusters of fireflies clinging to them, bloated and scattering mottled light; luminous fruits nestled between the vine leaves and stems, with thumb-sized female sprite crickets perched on them, holding their tiny lutes and harps, playing elegant, shy tunes.
Scholars gathered with three or five friends, quoting from various sources, engaging in high-flown discourse; outsiders sat alone in corners, drinking by themselves, with their shadows forming pairs; and there were many idle patrons, sitting around tables, holding juice or light drinks and watching the sugar figurines wrestling and fighting on plates, occasionally cheering, throwing in a few silver horns, or a handful of gold beans, to win a few harmless rewards.
Then.
The battle broke out suddenly and intensely.
