Upon the altar Cao Cao sat unmoved before the hot cup. The drums and shouts that had rung loudly from the plain outside the pass fell quiet after two or three breaths. The gate below the altar opened wide. The sound of a horse's bells arrived a breath earlier. Guan Yu walked slowly in upon his horse, holding a head in one hand. That head was the head of Hua Xiong (華雄). Guan Yu set the head down, large, beneath the table.

Cao Cao rose from his seat. He stretched his hand toward the cup upon the table. The outer grain of the cup was still warm. Cao Cao's eye narrowed. "Yunchang. The steam of this cup has not yet cooled. Your step returned sooner than the cup's single cooling."

Guan Yu bowed deeply at the waist. He received the cup with both hands. He brought it to his mouth and drained it quietly in one draught. The steam of the cup touched the tip of his beard lightly and dispersed. "The warmth of Lord Mengde's cup, this Yunchang shall not forget in a lifetime."

Yuan Shao upon the altar laid a hand lightly upon the altar-front. "I did not know that Yunchang's step was so swift." Yuan Shu to one side of the altar turned his face lightly aside. He brought out no line. The mouths of the lords to left and right all stood quietly open. Within a single breath, the air of the seat leaned toward one person's name. The two characters "Guan Yu (關羽)" were, this morning, engraved for the first time distinctly upon the air outside the pass.

Behind Liu Bei, one man stepped a large pace forward. Height seven chi four cun. Wide shoulders, a short beard, two round and bristling eyes. Zhang Fei. Style Yide (翼德).

Zhang Fei shouted loudly toward the altar. "Our elder brother has cut down Hua Xiong. How shall we halt at this seat? Without kicking through the pass and seizing Dong Zhuo alive, what more shall we wait for?"

Yuan Shu's face reddened for the second time this morning. "While the great ministers already yield in modesty, shall the mere underling of a county prefect dare flaunt martial might at this seat? Guards, cast this fellow out at once."

Cao Cao raised a hand again. "When reward is given for merit, where is the law of high and low?"

Yuan Shu sprang up. "If you so value a mere county prefect, I shall withdraw." Cao Cao made a laugh mingled with a sigh. "Why spoil a great matter with one line? Lord Gonglu. Hold the seat."

Yuan Shao waved a hand toward Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei. "Administrator Gongsun. Take these three back to camp today. We shall speak again tomorrow."

Gongsun Zan bowed his head deeply. The three of Liu, Guan, and Zhang left the seat. Behind their backs, Cao Cao secretly sent one man bearing an ox and a few jars of wine to comfort them.

That night, upon the small table in Liu Bei's camp, one more cup of wine was placed. In each of the three men's hands a cup was held. Guan Yu stroked the tip of his beard quietly. Zhang Fei laughed; Liu Bei nodded deeply. The steam of this morning's hot cup was, this night, sitting divided inside the three cups upon this small table. It was an evening on which the grain of a single warmth moved its seat.

Liu Bei reached into the pocket over his chest. Within that pocket, the red thread from Daxing of Day 5 and the grain of the pillar of Gwae-in from Day 7 had long been folded. Tonight he did not draw them out. He only pressed his palm upon the outside of the pocket for a breath. That pressing told the two brothers, without a line, that the bone of this morning's warmth belonged beside the red thread long folded.

Outside the tent flap, the messenger sent secretly by Cao Cao set down an ox and a few jars of wine quietly and turned back without saying his errand. The three saw his back cross the flap of the tent. In Guan Yu's eye, a low nod passed at that back. The warmth of a cup had already begun to travel between a man who had borrowed a birthday and another man who had borrowed a cup; between a chancellor's heaven-defying guards and a prefect's three cups; between the morning of a warrant and the evening of a small tent. None of the three named that travel aloud this night; yet the three cups upon the small table stood as three small signatures upon the same page.

The twenty-second evening of Book 1 deepened quietly across two tables: the altar before the Huzhao Pass and the small table in Liu Bei's camp. The three characters Jusangon (酒尚溫, the wine is still warm) were planted as a seed: the breath in which one step returned sooner than the cup's single cooling. The steam of Day 21's Onjucheong had, this evening, extended into two clear characters of one person's name.

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