Volume One, Chapter One: Those Who Die from Banging Their Heads on the Card Table Must Play Three Rounds in the Underworld First

Volume One, Chapter One: Banging Your Head on the Card Table, Death by Poker—Three Hands in the Underworld First?

The last thing Wang Erma remembered was the chipped folding table underneath the old locust tree in his neighborhood, and the “Ace of Hearts” he had just drawn into his hand.

“Bomb!” he called out, too eagerly. Half his body sprang up from the stool, and the back of his head slammed hard against the step—not the step in front of his own door, but the polished blue stone slab outside the neighborhood guardhouse. One moment he heard Old Zhang cursing, “You old rascal, peeking at the cards again,” the next, his vision went black, and the cards scattered from his hand, the Ace of Hearts fluttering before his nose like a death warrant.

When his eyes opened again, the sky was murky gray, the wind carried the scent of burnt offerings mixed with an earthy tang he couldn’t quite name.

“You’re awake?” a shrill voice sounded at his ear. “Get up quickly, don’t delay the journey.”

Wang Erma sat up groggily, his lower back aching. He reached behind and pulled out half a sunflower seed kernel—one he’d pocketed that morning, shelled during poker but never eaten. Lifting his head, he saw two “people” standing before him: one dressed in black, face pale as if covered in paper, hat brim pressed to his brows; the other in white, face dark as charcoal, mouth twisted enough to hang an oil jug.

“Who are you...” Wang Erma’s throat was parched, but the man in black cut him off: “No need to guess. Black and White Impermanence, here to fetch your soul.”

The one in white kicked a stone by his feet. “Wang Erma, male, fifty-eight, retired worker. Died from banging his head too hard while getting up during poker—that’s what’s written in the cause of death column, not wrong, is it?”

Wang Erma stared blankly, then looked at his own hands: his wrist still wore the red string he got yesterday with groceries, but his palm was empty, missing the plastic cards he’d played with for three years. He swallowed. “So... I really died?”

“What else?” Black Impermanence—later Wang Erma would learn his name was Little Black—pulled out a palm-sized booklet and flipped through it noisily. “Your allotted lifespan ended today, at the third quarter of noon. Not a minute more, not a minute less. Come, cross the Bridge of Forgetfulness.”

“Wait!” Wang Erma jumped up, the sunflower kernel in his back making him grimace. “Bridge of Forgetfulness? Lady Meng’s Soup? I won’t go! My game isn’t finished! Old Zhang owes me five yuan in bets, I need to collect!”

He turned to run, but White Impermanence—Little White—grabbed him by the collar. Little White’s strength was shocking; Wang Erma struggled, feet never touching the ground. “Elder, don’t bother. Everyone wants to go back, but it’s useless.” He pointed to a vague shadow of a bridge in the distance. “See that? That’s the Bridge of Forgetfulness. Cross it, drink a bowl of soup, and you forget everything—nice and easy.”

Wang Erma followed his finger and indeed saw a stone bridge, crowded with drooping shadows like sleepyheads. At the far end, an old woman crouched by a large jar, ladling something—surely Lady Meng’s Soup.

Panic surged in Wang Erma’s chest, remembering Old Li’s warning: drink that soup, and you forget even your own child’s name, let alone the tricks of poker. No, absolutely not.

“I won’t drink!” Wang Erma fought, neck stiff. “I never did anything bad, never stole or robbed, just loved a game of poker—why must I drink that soup?”

Little Black finished flipping through the booklet and tucked it away, coldly: “Rules are rules. No matter what you did, you must drink.”

“Can’t the rules be bent a little?” Wang Erma’s eyes darted, catching sight of a cloth pouch on Little White’s waist, half-exposed with a colorful card poking out. It looked familiar. “Hey, what’s in that bag?”

Little White instinctively covered it. “None of your business.”

“Looks like cards to me.” Wang Erma squinted. “Red and black—isn’t that poker?”

At these words, both Little Black and Little White froze. Little White blinked, releasing Wang Erma’s collar. “How did you know?”

“I’ve played cards all my life. I can smell poker even with my eyes closed!” Wang Erma thumped his chest, though he wondered: Do they play poker in the Underworld?

Little Black glanced at Little White, who scratched his head and whispered in Little Black’s ear. Wang Erma caught fragments: “new ghost mission,” “poker,” “exempt soup.” His heart leapt.

Sure enough, Little Black cleared his throat, his tone softening. “Since you died playing poker, there’s a special exception.” He pointed to a stone table beneath a crooked old tree. “New ghosts in the Underworld have an ‘entry mission’: play three hands of poker—win one, and you don’t have to drink Lady Meng’s Soup. Lose, and you not only drink, but also polish King Yan’s crown.”

Wang Erma looked where he pointed; on the stone table lay a deck of cards, still wrapped in plastic, though the edges were smudged with black dust, as if dug from the earth. At the table sat two little ghosts, one missing half his head, the other lacking a jaw, slumped over, shuffling cards.

“Three hands? Win one and skip the soup?” Wang Erma’s eyes lit up. “That’s a bargain! I’ll play!”

“Don’t be too happy yet,” Little White said, lips curling. “Those two are ‘newbie guide ghosts.’ Their skills aren’t great, but don’t try cheating—cheating at poker in the Underworld means you’ll have to copy the ‘Rules of Poker’ a hundred times.”

Wang Erma patted his chest. “I, Wang Erma, never cheat at cards! But...” He rubbed his hands. “Any chance for some water? My throat’s parched.”

Little White fished out a ceramic bowl and handed it to Little Black, who rolled his eyes, untied his water pouch, and poured in some cloudy water. Wang Erma drank it down without caring, wiped his mouth. “Let’s go, time to play!”

He walked to the stone table, and the two little ghosts rose abruptly. The one missing his head stammered, “G-greetings, elder.” The jawless one said nothing, but stared fixedly at Wang Erma’s hands, as if wary of cheating.

“Sit, sit.” Wang Erma dragged over a stone stool, cold as ice, but ignored it. He reached for the cards. “How are the rules set? Same as among the living?”

“More or less.” The headless ghost pushed the deck over. “One deck, three players, take turns calling points, landlord gets three hole cards. First to play all their cards wins. The peasants work together to beat the landlord.”

“Got it.” Wang Erma shuffled the cards, the plastic slick but sticky, as if coated in Underworld dust. He shuffled twice, stacked the deck. “Who calls points first?”

“Elder first,” the jawless ghost rumbled, voice muffled from his throat.

Wang Erma looked at his hand: two Jokers, three twos, and a straight—not great, but not bad. He considered calling “one point” to test the waters, but remembering Little White’s “win one and skip the soup,” he swallowed his words.

“Three points!” He slapped the table, the stone thudding, cards jumping. “I’ll be landlord!”

The two little ghosts flinched, the headless one nearly dropping his cards. Wang Erma chuckled inwardly: these ghosts are timid, easy to rattle.

He drew the three hole cards—another two, making four twos, a bomb!

“Deal the cards.” Wang Erma arranged his hand, deliberately placing the four twos on top, letting the ghosts catch a glimpse.

The headless ghost played first, trembling, laying down a “three.”

The jawless ghost followed with a “five.”

Wang Erma didn’t play anything big yet, starting with a “seven.” He knew, against newbies, you shouldn’t throw out bombs right away—better to lure them out first.

Sure enough, the two ghosts played haphazardly, one card after another. The headless one laid down a pair of “tens,” the jawless one tried to match but gave up.

“I’ll beat that!” Wang Erma played a pair of “Kings,” glancing at the ghosts. “How’s that? Admit defeat?”

The headless ghost pursed his lips. The jawless one fished out a pair of “Aces,” slapping them on the table.

“Oh, big cards, huh?” Wang Erma feigned surprise, but knew now—they probably didn’t have a bomb. He casually played his pair of “twos.” “Pair of twos, I’ll beat you!”

Both ghosts turned pale. The headless one whispered, “Elder, your cards are pretty good.”

“Of course!” Wang Erma grew proud, forgetting he was in the Underworld. “Back in my neighborhood, they call me ‘Little Zhuge of the Card Table!’ With your skills, you think you can beat me?”

He was boasting when the jawless ghost suddenly played a straight: “Three to seven!”

Wang Erma glanced at his hand—he had “Four to eight.” He was about to play, then deliberately frowned. “Ah, this is tricky... I don’t think I have a straight.”

The ghosts’ eyes brightened. The headless one quickly played a “nine.”

“Gotcha!” Wang Erma rejoiced inwardly, but cried out, “Spirits of the neighborhood, lend me a hand!” He drew out his “Four to eight” straight. “Straight! I’ll beat you!”

The ghosts groaned, faces falling like squashed eggplants.

Wang Erma pressed his advantage, playing out his single cards one by one, finally slamming the four twos onto the table. “Bomb! Game over!”

The stone table gave a low hum, and from the cards rose a plume of black smoke. Within the smoke floated tiny ghostly forms, sharp-faced and monkey-like, circling the table twice and vanishing with shrill cries.

Wang Erma jumped. “What was that?”

“A special feature of the Underworld,” Little White appeared behind him, arms crossed, smiling. “Whenever a bomb is played, the ghosts’ shadows appear. The worse your card skills, the fiercer the shadows—yours is fine. Last time a new ghost played a bomb, it summoned a green-faced demon and scared himself to tears.”

The two little ghosts stood up, heads down. The headless one whispered, “Elder won…”

“Win means no Lady Meng’s Soup, right?” Wang Erma asked eagerly.

“No need.” Little Black came over, pointing to the bridge. “Lady Meng is right there. Since you won, she’ll bring you ‘sweet soup’—it’s Lady Meng’s Soup without the forget-me herb, just to quench your thirst.”

Wang Erma looked that way, and sure enough, the old woman by the bridge was walking over, holding a steaming bowl. She wore a gray jacket, hair grizzled, face creased, and her bowl was rough ceramic.

“Young man, you won?” Lady Meng reached him, handed over the bowl, her voice rough as sandpaper. “Try it, I added a bit of flower honey for you—sweet.”

Wang Erma took it, the bowl hot in his hands. He looked down: the soup was pale yellow, petals floating atop, fragrant with a gentle floral scent. Nothing like the fearsome reputation. He took a sip—sweet, smoother than the soy milk sold at his neighborhood gate.

“Delicious!” Wang Erma smacked his lips. “Sister Meng, your soup is excellent!”

Lady Meng was startled by the “sister,” then smiled, her wrinkles unfolding. “You old man, you know how to talk.” She pointed to the stone table. “Since you won, rest here a while—the ‘newbie tournament’ is next. Win, and you can earn ‘rebirth points.’ Accumulate enough, and you get in line to be reborn.”

“Rebirth points?” Wang Erma blinked. “Does it have to do with poker?”

“Of course.” Little White leaned in, squatting beside him and cracking sunflower seeds—who knows where he got them. “The Underworld values ‘cards for fate.’ Play well, and you get a good reincarnation; play poorly, you stay in the Underworld—either polishing tables for King Yan or counting cards for the judges.”

Wang Erma looked at the cards on the stone table, then at the distant gray Bridge of Forgetfulness, and suddenly felt the Underworld wasn’t so scary after all.

At least, he wouldn’t have to drink that soup that made him forget poker.

He finished the sweet soup, handed the bowl to Lady Meng, and rubbed his hands. “So, when does the newbie tournament start? I’d like to practice a bit.”

Little Black glanced at him, lips twitching as if in a smile. “What’s the rush? Let me register you first—from today, you’re officially an Underworld ‘Poker Newbie.’”

Wang Erma nodded, suddenly remembering something, grabbing Little White’s sleeve. “Oh right, about my five yuan bet… if Old Zhang shows up, could you ask him for me?”

Little White: “…”

Little Black: “…”

Lady Meng covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.

From the distance, the wind carried the snickers of the two guide ghosts: This old man, even in death, never forgets his wager.

(End of Chapter One)