Stories submitted by: The Order Archive - Master Liang

Editor’s Note: The following account has been preserved from the Order’s archives. Some minor adjustments to wording have been made for modern readability, but the spirit and substance of the original telling remain unchanged.

I wasn’t building a kingdom, lads. I was just trying to keep the frost off my fingers and a few coins in my pocket. Bread, ginger beer, and a whisper of something stronger if you knew the wink. That was all. But the winter of 1558 had other plans.

The North Sea wind came screaming across the links that year, sharp enough to cut a man to the bone. The Old Course was nothing but frozen earth and stubborn souls chasing a ball like it held the secrets of heaven. They came off the last green with cheeks raw, boots heavy with mud, and throats dry enough to crack.

I had my cart then. Two wheels, a plank, and hope. I pushed it to the edge of the turf every morning, praying the golfers would linger long enough to buy a loaf or a drink. Most days, they didn’t. The inns had the fires, and I had the cold. I needed a break.

It came on a day when the snow fell so thick you couldn’t see the steeple from the first tee. A laird and his rival were playing for more coin than I’d seen in a year. They cursed the weather, stomped the ground, and then the laird’s ball vanished. Gone into the white. The match was hanging on that ball, and so was his pride.

I searched the drifts like a man hunting treasure. My fingers burned, my breath smoked, and then I found it. Or maybe I found one that looked close enough. I held it up like a saint with a relic. The laird laughed, clapped my shoulder, and said, “You’ve saved my honor, Liang. Come drink with us.”

That night, in the warmth of the inn, I met the men who mattered. Brewers, landowners, captains of ships. I poured slow, listened well, and learned the art of making introductions. By Christmas, I wasn’t just selling drink. I was stitching lives together.

I thought I was building a business. I didn’t know I was starting a ritual. A way of ending a round that would outlive us all. They call it the nineteenth now. Back then, it was just my cart and a nod.

So raise your glass, lads. To a lost ball, a cold wind, and a man who never played the game but made sure it never ended at eighteen.