Chapter Thirteen: Old Zhou’s “Chip Investment” Pays Off—Save Every Penny

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Under the cracks of the stone slabs at the City God Temple still lingered stains from yesterday’s soup. Wang Erma squatted down, scraping with a blade of grass. After a long while, he managed to produce a faint mark, much like the wrinkles on Old Zhou’s face—more pronounced with each scrape. “Stop scraping, Master Ma,” Old Zhou urged from beside him, holding a red two of hearts stained with soup, wiping it repeatedly with his sleeve. “If the magistrate comes to inspect and sees this mark, he’ll accuse us of damaging the card table again.”

“That magistrate’s eyes are so poor he didn’t even notice his own talcum powder yesterday. What chance does he have to see this mark?” Wang Erma threw the grass blade down and dusted off his hands. “Besides, this is where we play every day. Leaving a mark is just like stamping ‘Master Ma’s Card Table’ on it.”

Just then, Little Bai rushed in carrying a bamboo basket clinking with colorful paper chips. “Master Ma! Uncle Zhou!” She set the basket down on the table, her braid flicking like a little whip. “The King of Hell asked me to deliver new chips! They’re rewards for the winners of the newbie tournament—both of you get some!”

The chips were printed on Netherworld mulberry bark paper: red ones marked “10 Nether Coins,” green “50 Nether Coins,” and on top, two yellow ones marked “100 Nether Coins,” their edges sprinkled with gold dust, making Old Zhou’s eyes sparkle. “These... are for me?” He reached out but hesitated just before touching the yellow chips, rubbing his sleeve nervously. “I get some too?”

“Of course!” Little Bai smiled, hands on hips. “Uncle Zhou, you played the key bomb in the newbie tournament, the King of Hell says that counts as your main credit, so here’s a 100 chip for you! Master Ma is the champion, so you get two!” She pushed the two yellow chips toward Wang Erma and slipped one into Old Zhou’s hand. “Hold onto this, Uncle Zhou, it’s worth two jin of Meng Po’s sunflower seeds!”

Old Zhou’s hand trembled slightly, fingers gripping the yellow chip like it was a hot sweet potato. He hurriedly slipped it into his clothes—but stopped halfway, glancing at his faded pants pocket worn through by age. Frowning, he pulled the chip back out and stuffed it into his sleeve. Unsatisfied, he felt the cloth belt tied around his waist, untied it, carefully wrapped the chip in the cloth, then retied the belt tightly. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief.

“What treasure are you hiding there?” Wang Erma laughed, placing his two yellow chips on the table and handing a green chip to Little Bai. “Here, buy some seeds to eat. Thanks for running the errand.”

Little Bai’s eyes lit up as she stuffed the chip into her pocket. “Thank you, Master Ma! I’m off to Meng Po’s now!” She turned and ran off, forgetting her basket. A few red chips left at the bottom fluttered to Old Zhou’s feet with a breeze.

He quickly bent to pick them up, stacking them neatly before handing them back to Wang Erma. “Master Ma, these are yours.”

“You keep them,” Wang Erma waved a hand. “Two big ones are enough. You can have the small ones as pocket money.”

Old Zhou shook his head like a rattle drum. “No, that won’t do! Rules are rules—what belongs to whom stays with whom!” He pushed the red chips back toward Wang Erma too hastily; the chips slipped into a crack in the table, wedging tightly. Both men squatted down to fish them out, fingers turning red from the effort. One chip’s corner was bent, and Old Zhou sighed with regret. “See? It’s bent now, no longer worth anything.”

“Do Nether Coins care about bends?” Wang Erma slapped the chips on the table. “As long as they can buy seeds, that’s enough.” He looked up just as Little Li came in with a tattered book smeared with ink spots. “Little Li, come on, fresh chips just arrived. Let’s play a couple of hands—winner takes the chips as a prize.”

Little Li’s eyes brightened as he set the book down. “Great! I just came up with a new card-counting poem—let’s see if it works!”

Upon hearing “a couple of hands,” Old Zhou shrank back. “I... I think I’ll sit this one out? These chips...” He fingered the cloth belt around his waist, as if afraid they might escape.

“Afraid? If you win, you can stash more. If you lose, I’ll make it up to you!” Wang Erma pulled him toward the table and pressed him onto the stone bench. “Just three hands to practice, so you’re not rusty for the four-player game.”

Old Zhou hesitated, then sat down, his back straight as a board, careful not to lean back—afraid of crushing the chips at his waist. As Wang Erma shuffled, Old Zhou’s eyes never left the chips. He muttered, “Red’s 10, green’s 50, yellow’s 100... save up 500 and you can get a big enamel basin. Meng Po says that basin can hold soup without spilling...”

“What’s the point of saving that stuff?” Wang Erma dealt the cards. “We don’t have to buy groceries or cook in the underworld. Seeds are enough.”

“It’s different,” Old Zhou carefully picked up his cards, fingers wet with spit, flipping them so gently as if afraid to wake the deck. “Saving gives me peace of mind. I never saved money when alive, ended up too poor to buy a good hand. Now that I can save chips, I have to keep them.” His eyes lit up as he held a pair of Aces and three Kings—a good hand.

In the first round, Wang Erma was the landlord with a mediocre hand: only a bomb of four sixes. He led with a pair of threes. Little Li had no pairs; Old Zhou hesitated holding onto his pair of Aces, finally playing a pair of fives. Wang Erma followed with a pair of tens, Old Zhou still held back; Little Li came out with a pair of Queens. Wang Erma didn’t respond, watching helplessly as Little Li played a straight. When Little Li finished with a straight, Wang Erma bombed, but Old Zhou suddenly slapped down his pair of Aces. “I take it!” His voice was louder than usual.

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“Where were you earlier?” Wang Erma chuckled. “Why didn’t you play the pair of Aces when I played the fives?”

Old Zhou blushed. “I... I was afraid to waste it.” After playing the Aces, he finished with three Kings in a “three with one” and won. Little Li pushed a red chip to him. “Uncle Zhou won; here you go.”

Old Zhou stared at the chip for a long time, compared it with the yellow chips at his waist, then carefully slipped it into his pants pocket—this time on the intact side. He patted it down, afraid it might fall out.

In the second round, Little Li was landlord but had terrible luck, holding mostly single cards. Wang Erma and Old Zhou teamed up to suppress him, swiftly clearing most of his cards. Frustrated, Little Li blindly played a single two. Old Zhou held the big Joker, hesitating whether to play it—playing would win the game, but he felt “saving the big Joker was more useful.” He stalled until Wang Erma urged, “Play it! You saving it for what?”

Only then did Old Zhou slap down the big Joker and win. Little Li gave him another red chip. This time Old Zhou didn’t pocket it but held it in his hand, squeezing the corners until they softened.

In the third round, Old Zhou was landlord with a strong hand: four twos and two Jokers—a “heavenly hand.” Wang Erma and Little Li exchanged a glance, both convinced they would lose. But Old Zhou didn’t follow convention: he led with a single three, Wang Erma played a five, but Old Zhou passed. Little Li played a seven; Old Zhou still held back, waiting till both played single Kings before slowly playing a single Ace, beating Wang Erma’s Ace.

“Why not just bomb it straight away?” Wang Erma urged. “Saving four twos for the new year?”

“No rush,” Old Zhou smiled faintly, eyes squinting. “First clear the singles; save the bomb for last—it’s safer.” He leisurely played singles until only four twos and two Jokers remained, while Wang Erma and Little Li still had many cards left. Then Old Zhou slapped down the four twos. “Bomb!”

“Oh, finally willing to bomb?” Wang Erma laughed.

Just as Old Zhou was about to play the two Jokers, he suddenly yelped and jumped from the stone bench, clutching his waist, face scrunched like a dumpling.

“What’s wrong?” Wang Erma asked quickly.

“Nothing… nothing,” Old Zhou sat back down cautiously, only touching the bench edge, bending his back like a shrimp. “My… my waist hurts.”

Wang Erma eyed the tightly tied cloth belt around Old Zhou’s waist and his restless posture, then suddenly understood. “Are you afraid of crushing the chips? Just put them on the table, no one will snatch them.”

“No, no,” Old Zhou shook his head more vigorously. “Not safe on the table—what if the wind blows them away or someone knocks them off...” He kept touching his waist, worried half a chip might be missing.

Just then, the magistrate came in, carrying a cloth bag. His reading glasses slid to the tip of his nose; he pushed them up and stood before the table. “Ahem! Inspecting the card game! Any cheating? Any gambling?”

“We’re just practicing,” Wang Erma pointed to the chips. “These are just for fun, prizes to save.”

The magistrate’s eyes narrowed, noticing Old Zhou sitting stiffly with a bent back, hands constantly touching his waist. “Old Zhou! What are you hiding at your waist? Cards?”

Old Zhou paled and hurriedly shook his head. “No! Not cards! It’s... chips!” He untied the cloth belt and showed the yellow chips. “Newbie tournament rewards, no cheating!”

The magistrate examined the chips, then looked at Old Zhou’s uneasy posture and burst out laughing. “You tie chips to your waist? Sitting so straight like you’re being punished—how do you play cards?”

Old Zhou finally realized he had been so focused on protecting the chips he hadn’t played after slapping down the four twos; he still held the two Jokers. He tried to play, but his bent waist made it painful to bend down. Flustered, he searched for cards but couldn’t find them—the cards had fallen under the bench when he jumped up earlier.

“Play your cards!” The magistrate pulled out a notebook and wrote, “Rule: timeout on play results in five-point penalty!”

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“No, please, Magistrate!” Old Zhou panicked, bending down to pick up the cards. The cloth belt slipped off, yellow chips rolling out, landing at the magistrate’s feet. The magistrate picked them up, dusted them off, and handed them back. “Why tie your chips to your waist? It’s uncomfortable and delays your play. Is it worth it?”

Old Zhou took the chips, his face flushing bright red. He carefully wrapped them back into the cloth belt but didn’t retie it around his waist. Instead, he tucked the bundle into a crack in the table—a wide gap that perfectly held the cloth snugly. He patted it to make sure it wouldn’t fall, then sat down firmly. His waist no longer hurt.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Wang Erma teased, “In the table crack, safer and no discomfort.”

Old Zhou said nothing, bending to pick up the cards under the bench. He slapped down the two Jokers and whispered, “I... I won.”

Little Li pushed the last red chip to him. Old Zhou hesitated, glanced at the cloth bundle in the table crack, then at the chips on the table. After a long pause, he also tucked the red chip into the crack, arranging it neatly with the yellow chips like old copper coins.

The magistrate finished writing and glanced again at the chips in the table crack. Seeing Wang Erma’s two yellow chips carelessly tossed on the table, one pressing down a card, he frowned again. “Wang Erma! Why are you throwing your chips around like that? Don’t you know how to take care of them?”

“No one’s going to snatch them on the table,” Wang Erma tossed a yellow chip into the air. “What’s the point of saving? Win some, buy seeds to eat, lose some, then win them back.” He pushed a chip toward Old Zhou. “Here, this one’s for you. Save up 200, you can get a big enamel basin.”

Old Zhou hurriedly waved him off. “No, no! Yours is yours!”

“Take it, then,” Wang Erma insisted, shoving the chip into the table crack. “When we win the four-player game and gather enough chips, I’ll treat you to a patterned basin with ‘Landlord Champion’ printed on it. How’s that?”

Old Zhou’s eyes brightened. He didn’t refuse but carefully aligned the three chips and murmured, “Patterned one... how many do I need to save?”

“Slowly,” Wang Erma patted his shoulder. “We play every day; plenty of chances to win.”

The magistrate packed up his notebook and walked out, stopping at the door to glance at the chips in the table crack and at Old Zhou’s careful arrangement. A faint smile tugged at his lips, but he said nothing and left, the talcum powder bottle inside his bag clinking, sounding like a chuckle.

Little Bai came back carrying a bag of sunflower seeds, clutching an empty bamboo basket. “Master Ma! Sister Meng Po gave extra osmanthus-flavored seeds!” She poured them onto the table, the seeds scattering near the table crack. Old Zhou quickly pushed them aside, careful not to let any touch the chips.

“Eat, Old Zhou,” Wang Erma grabbed a handful and handed them over. “Winning cards tastes better with seeds.”

Old Zhou took one, hesitating before putting it in his mouth. First, he peeled the shell and placed the kernel on the table next to the chips—arranged two kernels, then felt uneasy and finally ate them slowly, eyes fixed on the chips in the crack, a faint smile playing on his lips as if holding a little warm sun inside.

Watching him, Wang Erma suddenly realized Old Zhou wasn’t just saving chips—he was saving peace of mind. Like Old Zhang in the human neighborhood, who hoarded coins in a tin box not to spend, but because it felt good to see savings. Even ghosts in the underworld, it seemed, needed something to hold onto to make life meaningful.

He grabbed some seeds, slipped some to Little Li, and cracked one himself. The crispy osmanthus fragrance mixed with the seed’s aroma, warming his throat. The wind from the City God Temple’s doorway blew softly, making the chips on the table sway. Old Zhou quickly reached out to steady them, as if holding a priceless treasure.

(End of Chapter Thirteen)