Chapter 27: Little Li "Recites Poetry" with His Opponent: Forgetting to Play His Hand

The card game area at the City God Temple had been tidied up thoroughly. Little Black and Little White had wiped the stone table three times and wrapped the legs with spider lily vines, claiming it was to "prevent the table from drifting." The Judge brought over a small bamboo stool to serve as the referee, placing a "Four-Strike Promotion Tournament Scorebook" on his lap; he had even pasted a dried lotus leaf on the cover to make it look more solemn than usual. Wang Er-Ma, clutching the "lucky apricot blossom" that Old Zhou had stuffed into his hand, had just laid his cards on the table when Lady Meng approached with a bamboo basket. Inside were freshly roasted pumpkin seeds, still emitting the faint, eerie heat characteristic of the Underworld.

"Today you're facing the 'Poet Ghost Team,'" Lady Meng said, setting the seeds in the center of the stone table and handing Wang Er-Ma a bowl of sweet soup. "Their leader is a pedantic scholar from three hundred years ago who loves to recite poetry before playing his cards. Don't let him distract you."

Old Zhou, who was busy arranging his cards by size like a string of copper coins, shrank his neck at the news. "Reciting poetry? Isn't that even more annoying than the Judge reciting the rules?" He gripped a red heart 5 with his fingertips, terrified of dropping his cards from the sound of the poetry.

Little Li, however, had eyes that lit up. He pulled a crumpled yellow paper booklet from his robes—it was his "Poetry Counter-Attack Guide," which he had compiled overnight. On the first page, it read: "When facing a Poet Ghost, counter with poetry first; play cards only after winning the verbal duel." "What are you afraid of?" he laughed, patting the booklet. "If he recites seven-character verses, I'll counter with five-character ones. If he praises his own card skills, I'll mock his style. I guarantee I'll make him forget to play his cards!"

Wang Er-Ma had just peeled a seed; he tossed the shell onto the table. "Don't mess around! We're here to win, not to hold a poetry slam. You keep track of the cards, Old Zhou handles the bombs, and I'll give the orders. Don't let him lead you astray."

No sooner had he finished speaking than three shadows drifted into the arena. Leading them was a gaunt ghost in a green cloth gown, waving a tattered folding fan. On the fan were the words "Peerless in Poetry and Cards," though the ink was half-blackened by incense smoke. Behind him were two young ghosts, one holding a copy of *Three Hundred Tang Poems* and the other carrying a bamboo tube for cards, swaying with every step like a pair of mobile bookshelves.

"I am Liu Wenqing," the green-clad ghost said, bowing to Wang Er-Ma while waving his fan, his voice sounding as if he were pinching his throat. "I have long heard of the 'Ma-Ye Team's' unconventional style. Today, I have come to make friends through cards and add flavor with poetry."

Little Li stood up with a start, slamming his yellow booklet onto the table. "Adding flavor with poetry is fine, but if you dare use it to delay the game, I’ll use my 'Card-Playing Doggerel' to make the ink run right off your fan!"

Liu Wenqing paused, then smiled. "The young friend has quite a temper! Very well, then—please, play your cards."

The Judge tapped his scorebook. "According to the rules, the Poet Ghost Team goes first."

Liu Wenqing leisurely drew three cards and placed them on the table. "A pair of Jacks and a nine, cards played like a tapestry divine. I cast a brick to attract the jade, watch how this hand is laid."

Old Zhou hurried to count his cards, his fingers sliding back and forth. "I—I have a pair of Queens, I can beat that..."

"What’s the rush!" Little Li yanked him back, scribbling furiously in his yellow booklet. "He used a seven-character verse, I’ll hit him with something sharper!" He cleared his throat and recited: "A pair of Jacks and a single nine, your cards are scattered, far from fine. Luckily I have Queens to play, and drive your hand right away!"

He patted the table triumphantly, making several pumpkin seeds jump. Liu Wenqing’s face stiffened, and he waved his fan faster. "Your verse is crude, your skill is rude, witness this move—" He drew four more cards. "Four eights, a bomb!"

"Oh, you dare to bomb?" Little Li went to pick up his brush, but Wang Er-Ma pressed his arm down. "Play the cards! We’ll counter after the bomb!"

Old Zhou scrambled to pull out four tens. Just as he was about to place them on the table, he heard Liu Wenqing recite: "Though the bomb is small, its power is vast, like spring thunder that strikes at last. If you have no cards to beat this play, your victory has gone astray."

"He's mocking us for not having a big bomb!" Little Li’s eyes widened. He shook off Wang Er-Ma’s hand and wrote in his booklet, "Four eights called thunder? That’s just a firecracker! I have four tens to make your soul tremble and scatter!" He recited it so loudly and quickly that he didn't even notice his spit landing on the cards.

Wang Er-Ma was so angry he slapped the back of his head. "Play them! What good is just reciting poetry!"

"Oh! Right!" Little Li finally snapped to his senses and shouted at Old Zhou, "Quick! Play the four tens!"

Old Zhou fumbled as he slapped the four tens onto the table. The stone table held firm, though the impact made Lady Meng’s soup bowl wobble, splashing two drops of sweet soup onto Liu Wenqing’s gown.

Liu Wenqing frowned, wiped his hem, and drew more cards. "A sequence from five to nine, like lotus stems in a crooked line. Once this is played, you'll find no way, to counter this move, no matter the play." He arranged the five cards neatly, like a little train.

"A sequence? I have six to ten!" Wang Er-Ma grabbed his cards and was about to hand them to Old Zhou, but saw that Little Li was crouching on the ground writing poetry again—this time tracing the characters into the mud with his finger: "Five to nine like lotus stems? More like a pile of broken branches! I have a six-to-ten sequence, and I’ll turn your cards into withered wood!"

"Little Li!" Wang Er-Ma growled, "If you don't play, the Judge will call a forfeit!"

But Little Li was locked in a staring contest with Liu Wenqing. Liu Wenqing waved his fan and smiled, "My young friend, your poem has no rhyme. You repeated 'branch' and 'branch,' that is hardly good poetry."

"It’s better than comparing a sequence to a lotus root! Can a root be a sequence?" Little Li stuck out his neck. "If you’re so good, recite another one!"

"I shall!" Liu Wenqing snapped his fan shut. "Hearts and spades are all a view, cards should be painted like art anew. If you only know how to wag your tongue, you’d better—"

"Enough!" The Judge slammed his scorebook shut. "Three incense sticks have burned since the Poet Ghost Team played. The Ma-Ye Team failed to respond in time. According to the rules," he pushed up his spectacles, "the Ma-Ye Team is disqualified for this round!"

"What?" Little Li stood up abruptly, his poem in the mud still unfinished. "I—I’m playing! Six-to-ten sequence!"

"Too late." The Judge made a mark in the scorebook. "A forfeit is a forfeit. The Poet Ghost Team gets three points for this round."

Old Zhou tugged at Wang Er-Ma’s sleeve in a panic. "Ma-Ye, what do we do? We had such a good hand..."

Wang Er-Ma glared at Little Li, who shrank behind the stone stool, muttering, "He was the one who started the poetry battle with me..."

Lady Meng hurried over to smooth things over, handing the Judge a handful of seeds. "Judge, please show some leniency. Little Li is still young (as a ghost), he just forgot the rules for a moment." She tugged at Wang Er-Ma. "Just be careful next round."

Wang Er-Ma took a deep breath, sat down next to Little Li, and whispered, "If you dare play poetry with him again, I’ll dunk that yellow booklet into Lady Meng’s soup and boil it!"

Little Li nodded frantically. "No more dueling, no more. I’ll track the cards, I’ll track the cards..." He quickly wiped the poem from the mud with his foot and crouched back by the table, staring at his cards and muttering, "Six to ten is here, seven to Jack is here, I must play first this time..."

At the start of the next round, Liu Wenqing had learned his lesson. When playing his card, he only recited a short line: "A single King, please."

Wang Er-Ma signaled quickly, and Old Zhou pulled out an Ace. "I have an Ace!"

"Play it!"

Just as Old Zhou placed the Ace on the table, Liu Wenqing smiled again. "The young friend is fast this time, but that Ace is all alone, like a flower without leaves. Perhaps—"

"Shut up!" Wang Er-Ma shouted before he could finish. "Judge, he’s trying to stall for time again!"

The Judge tapped the table. "The Poet Ghost Team is forbidden from using poetry to distract opponents. If you do it again, you will be penalized."

Liu Wenqing pursed his lips and said nothing. But after only two rounds, he played "three sevens and a four" and couldn't help himself. "Three sevens and a four, just like..."

"Just like your play is a bore!" Little Li couldn't hold back, blurting it out before ducking behind Wang Er-Ma.

Liu Wenqing’s eyes lit up. "The young friend can't help himself? Then I shall—"

"Are you going to play or not?" Wang Er-Ma slapped the table, nearly dropping his cards. "If you recite poetry again, we’re reporting you for cheating!"

Liu Wenqing was choked off and sullenly closed his mouth. Little Li, however, secretly tugged at Wang Er-Ma’s sleeve and handed him a crumpled piece of yellow paper. On it was an acrostic poem: "Opponent has five cards left, if you have a bomb, don't hesitate. Play the six-to-ten sequence, and winning is a fate."

Wang Er-Ma paused, then smiled—the kid was clever, hiding the card-tracking code in a poem. He glanced at Liu Wenqing’s pile—sure enough, only five cards remained. He saw Little Li signaling to Old Zhou, who was clutching a bomb of four nines so tightly his hands were sweating.

"Old Zhou," Wang Er-Ma peeled a seed leisurely, "play the six-to-ten sequence."

Old Zhou hurried to put the cards on the table. Liu Wenqing’s expression changed. He searched through his cards for a long time but found nothing to beat it. He was so anxious he nearly shook his fan to pieces.

"Your turn," Wang Er-Ma urged.

Liu Wenqing gritted his teeth and pulled out a card. "A single two..."

"Bomb!" Wang Er-Ma shouted before he could recite any poetry.

Old Zhou stood up with a start and slapped the four nines onto the table. The stone table shook, but this time it didn't drift—instead, it knocked the *Three Hundred Tang Poems* right out of the hands of the little ghost behind Liu Wenqing, scattering pages everywhere.

"You—how can you not follow the rhythm!" Liu Wenqing cried out.

"Since when is there a rhythm to cards?" Wang Er-Ma laughed. "Little Li, your turn—play the pair of Kings."

Little Li hurried to draw his cards. Just as he was about to play, he couldn't help but lift his chin at Liu Wenqing, whispering, "Winning cards don't need poetry, tracking and playing is the key. If you keep acting like a pedantic scholar, next time you'll lose even more thoroughly!"

This time, he didn't dare speak loudly, aiming the words only for Liu Wenqing’s ears. Liu Wenqing’s face turned bright red; looking at the three cards left in his hand, he couldn't bring himself to play them.

The Judge finished scoring and closed the book. "The Ma-Ye Team wins this round. Five points."

Little Li jumped up and crowded next to Wang Er-Ma. "Did you see that, Ma-Ye? I didn't delay the game, did I? And I tracked his cards!"

Old Zhou laughed, holding the corner of the four nines. "Was that the right time to bomb?"

"Right!" Wang Er-Ma patted both ghosts on the shoulder and glanced at Liu Wenqing, who was crouching on the ground picking up his *Three Hundred Tang Poems*, his folding fan drooping like a deflated rooster. He couldn't help but call out, "Mr. Liu, next time you play cards, don't bring a book of poetry. A good hand is worth more than anything!"

Liu Wenqing didn't look back, just muttered while picking up the books. But the little ghost behind him whispered, "Our master says, you can lose the game, but never the spirit..."

"Can spirit be used as a stake?" Old Zhou mumbled, but after a glare from Wang Er-Ma, he quickly swallowed his words.

Lady Meng came over with fresh seeds and stuffed a handful into Little Li’s hand. "Your poetry was useful after all—it mocked the opponent and tracked the cards. Do it that way next time—but play the cards first, then recite the poem!"

Little Li nodded and tucked the seeds into his yellow paper booklet—claiming he wanted to "soak up the poetic atmosphere." As he tucked them in, he suddenly let out an "Oops!" "I just won, why did I forget to compose a 'Victory Poem'?"

Wang Er-Ma slapped the back of his head again. "Focus on the cards for the next round! Forget it again, and I’ll have Lady Meng force-feed you 'Forget-Poetry Soup'!"

Little Li covered his mouth and crouched back by the table. He had learned his lesson—he piled up the cards he needed to play for the next round before daring to scribble in his booklet. After a long time, he wrote: "Play cards first and write poems later, I am the smartest in the Ma-Ye team." After writing it, he secretly showed it to Old Zhou, who grinned so wide he almost held his cards upside down.

The wind of the card arena blew leisurely, making Liu Wenqing’s folding fan rustle and fluttering the characters on Little Li’s yellow booklet. Wang Er-Ma peeled a seed, watching Old Zhou carefully tuck the winnings into a blue cloth bag and Little Li crouching on the ground scribbling away. He suddenly felt that this Four-Strike Promotion Tournament, even with the interruptions of a Poet Ghost, was much more lively than any card game in the world of the living.