Chapter Three: Meng Po’s “Emotional Gambit”: Losing Means Cilantro in the Soup

Volume One, Chapter Three of "Underworld Card Games: From Fighting Landlord to Six-Flush": Meng Po’s “Emotional Card”: Lose and Cilantro Goes into the Soup

As Meng Po’s sweet soup was just handed into Wang Erma’s hands, the wind from the City God Temple swept over, swirling with paper money and causing the shadow of the underworld judge crouched on the ground picking up broken glasses to wobble unsteadily. King Yama was patting Wang Erma’s shoulder, laughing, when his eyes caught the “Newbie Tournament Grouping Chart” posted on the wall. Suddenly, he slapped his thigh: “Almost forgot! The newbie tournament is team play—three per team. You’re still short two teammates!”

Wang Erma sipped the sweet soup, the honeyed flavor sliding down his throat, making him squint in comfort. “Teammates? Weren’t those two little ghosts just now good enough?”

“They got scared off by your ‘Little Wang Controls 2’ move!” Xiao Bai interjected from the side, pointing to the corner—there, the two little ghosts who had just played cards with Wang Erma were huddled, quickly ducking behind a pillar when they saw Wang Erma’s gaze.

Meng Po set the soup bowl down on the stone table and tightened her apron at the waist. “Brother Wang, team up with me! I’ll be your logistics—if we lose, I handle the soup; if we win, I serve the sweet soup. I guarantee I’m more reliable than those two little ghosts!”

Wang Erma looked her over. “You play cards? Don’t end up giving me a single 3 when I play a pair of Kings.”

“Of course I play!” Meng Po straightened her neck and pulled out a crumpled deck of cards from her apron pocket. “I’ve listened to the old ghosts play cards for three hundred years while boiling soup—I know all the moves! Besides, my soup bucket hides a ‘Lucky Soup.’ Drink it, and you’re sure to win!”

King Yama chimed in, “Let her join! Meng Po’s clever, better than that old stick-in-the-mud judge.” He nudged the judge, still picking up glasses, “Judge, you be the referee. Start the grouping and the match!”

The judge got up from the ground, his crooked glasses perched askew on his nose, clutching half a pair of broken glasses and grumbling as he tore the grouping chart: “Teams, then. Wang Erma’s team... Meng Po... still need one more!”

“I’ll go! I’ll go!” A short old ghost suddenly pushed through the crowd, clutching a cloth bag, bowing deeply to Wang Erma. “I’m Old Chen, I sold tofu when alive. My card skills are average, but I won’t cause trouble!”

Wang Erma eyed his earnestness, recalled the two little ghosts who’d run off, and waved his hand. “Alright, you it is! Team name: ‘Master Ma’s Soup Drinkers’—if we win, Meng Po handles the soup; if we lose... well, she still handles the soup!”

Meng Po chuckled, scooping a ladle of clear water into the soup bucket. “Even if we lose, I’ll make sure you get the sweet stuff, as much as you want!”

The judge placed them at “Group A, Table One.” Across sat three old ghosts in gray robes, led by a lanky man whose face was as wrinkled as old bark, fanning his cards. He slammed them open with a “smack”: “I’m Old Locust, have played cards in the underworld for fifty years. I know the rules better than the judge here. You two new ghosts, better admit defeat early and save face!”

Wang Erma was about to retort, but Meng Po tugged at his sleeve and whispered, “Don’t argue, just focus on the game.”

In the first round, Old Locust was the landlord. The judge was still rubbing his eyes—while picking up the glasses earlier, his hand trembled and gave Old Locust an extra big joker. Wang Erma caught it just in time to call out, but Meng Po pulled him back: “Play first. We’ll worry about losing later!”

Wang Erma’s hand wasn’t bad: two 2’s and a straight. Old Chen had a pair of small jokers, enough to hold the line. But Old Locust’s hand was wickedly connected. He started with a “3-to-7 straight,” which Wang Erma countered with a “5-to-9.” Old Locust then slammed four Kings down with a “bomb!”

A booming explosion of black smoke burst from the table, and ghostly shadows emerged, clawing and writhing. Old Chen shook nervously and dropped two cards. Old Locust sneered at them, then played a pair of Aces. Wang Erma only had a pair of 2’s left and was about to slam the table when Old Locust leisurely pulled out a big joker: “Counter!”

“Done for, we lost this round,” Old Chen hung his head. Wang Erma was stumped—he couldn’t claim neighborhood rules that joker couldn’t beat a pair of 2’s; that would be cheating.

Before Old Locust could throw down the final card, Meng Po suddenly burst into tears.

Her crying was clear and bright, startling the ghostly figures around the table, who shrank back into the pile of cards. Old Locust froze, holding his card midair, staring blankly at Meng Po. “W-Why are you crying?”

“I’ve been boiling soup for three hundred years, finally got a team to play with, and lost without winning once...” Meng Po wiped her tears, droplets falling onto the rim of the soup bucket, splashing with a sobbing sound. “My soup’s lost its strength, can’t even help with the cards...”

Her sobs grew more pitiful, and a ladle slipped from her apron pocket, clattering to the ground. The three across exchanged glances. Old Locust hesitated to place his big joker on the table—he couldn’t really argue with a crying old lady, could he?

The ghosts watching began to cheer on: “Old Locust is bullying her!” “Grandma Meng Po, don’t cry!”

Wang Erma laughed, realizing it all—this wasn’t crying, it was playing the “emotional card.” Much like Old Zhang in his neighborhood pretending to be confused, both relied on disrupting the opponent’s focus to win.

Old Locust, embarrassed, shoved the big joker back into the pile and straightened his neck. “Fine, fine, you win! I won’t play this round!”

---

“Hey, wait!” Wang Erma hurriedly waved his hand, about to speak, when Meng Po stopped crying and wiped her face, smiling: “Really? So this round counts as our win?” Tears still clung to her lashes, her eyes shining as if she’d stolen honey.

Old Locust blinked and realized he’d been tricked, slamming his card fan down on the table. “You’re playing me!”

“Referee!” Meng Po called to the judge, “He admitted defeat on his own. Does that count as a win for us?”

The judge struggled to fix his crooked glasses and pushed them up. “Yes, yes! Voluntary surrender counts as a win!” He had been angry with Wang Erma earlier, but seeing Old Locust get put in his place gave him satisfaction.

Old Locust fumed, puffing his beard and glaring, but was powerless to stop the judge from marking a red circle next to “Master Ma’s Soup Drinkers” on the scoreboard.

Wang Erma leaned close to Meng Po, lowering his voice with a grin. “Sis, your move is clever! Even better than Old Zhang’s ‘pretend not to understand’ trick in my neighborhood.”

Meng Po smiled softly, scooping a bowl of sweet soup from the bucket and handing it over. “Shh! It’s called ‘softness overcomes hardness.’ I saw this a lot while boiling soup—old ghosts are proud, and when you cry, they feel too embarrassed to win.”

Old Chen was dumbfounded, forgetting his cards. “Grandma Meng Po, you really looked like you were crying just now...”

“Like burnt soup, right?” Meng Po patted his shoulder. “If we lose next round, I’ll cry again. Guaranteed to work!”

But the second round didn’t go so smoothly. Old Locust had learned his lesson. Sitting down, he cut off any chance of crying. “Don’t cry at me. I handled funerals when alive, seen enough grieving. Cry all you want, I’ll still play!”

This round, Wang Erma was landlord with a mediocre hand, only one bomb—four 3’s—and missing a crucial 5. The three opponents worked seamlessly: whenever Wang Erma played a single card, they covered it; pairs, they topped; soon Wang Erma’s cards were locked tight.

Just as Old Locust was about to play a straight to finish, Wang Erma panicked, reaching for his bomb, when Meng Po suddenly sniffled—not a full cry this time, just quietly wiping tears with her head down, shoulders trembling: “It’s my fault for not boiling good ‘Lucky Soup’... if only I’d added some osmanthus flowers...”

Old Locust’s hand froze midair, glancing at her and snorting, “Cut the act!” Yet his hand didn’t move.

The skinny ghost beside him couldn’t help but suggest, “Brother Locust, maybe... wait until she finishes crying?”

“No crying!” Old Locust glared, just as he was about to throw the straight, Meng Po looked up with teary eyes: “Brother Locust, if you win, could you... try some of my newly boiled bitter soup? I worry it’s too bitter, and the ghosts won’t like it...”

Bitter soup? Old Locust’s face stiffened—everyone in the underworld knew Meng Po’s bitter soup could burn out your tongue. Last time a newbie drank it, he was speechless for three days. The card he held fell with a “snap”—it was the 7 to finish the straight.

“Opportunity!” Wang Erma was quick, slapping down four 3’s. “Bomb, counter!”

A louder black smoke exploded, and the ghostly figures that emerged all had a hint of crying, probably catching Meng Po’s “crying skill.” Wang Erma then played a pair of 10’s plus a single card, finishing the round.

“We won!” Old Chen clapped.

Meng Po immediately wiped her tears, pulling a candy from her apron pocket and crunching it. “See? Lucky Soup works.”

Old Locust’s face turned green with anger, pointing at Meng Po. “You’re cheating!”

“If the referee says it’s not cheating, it counts!” Meng Po straightened her neck and scooped from the soup bucket. “Brother Wang, have a bowl of sweet soup to calm your nerves!”

Wang Erma took the bowl, but upon sipping, frowned—there was a strange taste. Looking down, he saw a leaf of cilantro floating at the bottom, green and glaring against the sweet soup.

“Sis, why is there cilantro in your soup?”

“Oh, I knocked over the cilantro jar when I was crying just now,” Meng Po blinked. “Don’t like it? Then I’ll give it to Brother Locust.” She lifted the bowl, about to hand it over.

Old Locust saw the cilantro and instantly turned pale—he hated cilantro in life; just the smell made him nauseous. He quickly waved it off. “Don’t give it to me! I won’t drink it!”

Wang Erma suddenly burst out laughing. Seeing Old Locust’s desperate avoidance and the cilantro floating in Meng Po’s soup, an idea struck him.

Before the third round started, Wang Erma tugged Meng Po’s sleeve and whispered, “Sis, your crying works great, but Old Locust is getting immune. How about a new tactic?”

“What’s that?” Meng Po leaned in.

“That cilantro...” Wang Erma pointed at the small jar beside the soup bucket. “Next time we lose, don’t cry. Put a handful of cilantro into the soup and serve it to the opponent—they hate cilantro, right? It’ll throw them off.”

Meng Po’s eyes lit up. “Right! Why didn’t I think of that? Cilantro’s even better than crying!” She grabbed a big handful from the jar, green and fresh, looking fierce.

This round, Old Locust’s team was strong and immediately played a small bomb, blocking Wang Erma’s card path. About to lose, Meng Po didn’t cry. Instead, she smiled and stood, scooping a ladle of sweet soup, then with a splash, dumped half the jar of cilantro in—the bowl was full of floating green leaves, like a “cilantro convention.”

“Brother Locust,” she walked over with the bowl, eyes smiling, “you played well earlier. I made you a ‘special soup’ to boost your spirit!”

Old Locust looked down at the bowl, instantly turning the same color as the judge’s red robe. He backed away. “I’m not thirsty!”

“How can you not be thirsty?” Meng Po offered the bowl closer, the cilantro scent invading his nose. “Just one sip—if you don’t drink, is it because you think my soup isn’t good enough?”

The surrounding ghosts cheered: “Drink it, drink it!” “Grandma Meng Po made it just for you!”

Old Locust was cornered, forced to pick up the bowl. He closed his eyes and sipped a little—the sharp cilantro mixed with sweetness stabbed down his throat. He immediately spat it out, coughing and doubling over. “Spicy! It’s killing me!”

While he was bent over coughing, Wang Erma signaled Old Chen, who quickly slapped down a pair of 2’s.

By the time Old Locust recovered, the game was disrupted. Staring at the cards on the table, he was dazed. “W-What was I going to play again?”

“We won!” Wang Erma threw down the last card, laughing and slapping the table.

The judge marked another red circle on the scoreboard, pushed up his glasses, and after a pause said, “Meng Po, next time don’t put cilantro in the soup... it made me miscount the points.”

Meng Po stuffed the cilantro jar into her apron pocket, grinning, “Got it! Next time, chives!”

Hearing “chives,” Old Locust shuddered and packed up his cards. “No more games! Playing with you guys, I’ll be choked by soup for sure!” He fled with his two teammates.

Wang Erma watched them go, smiling, and raised the sweet soup Meng Po handed him—this time without cilantro, the honey flavor just right. The wind from the City God Temple blew again, rustling the cards on the table. In the distance, the judge called out, “Next group, start!” Meng Po reheated water in the soup bucket, and Old Chen carefully arranged the cards beside her. Sunlight filtered through the paper money’s gaps, shining on the soup bowl, warming the heart.

“Sis,” Wang Erma sipped the soup, “from now on, our team’s secret weapon is your ‘cilantro soup’!”

Meng Po added a spoonful of osmanthus to the soup, smiling, “Not cilantro soup—it’s ‘tactical soup.’ When we win the newbie tournament, I’ll brew you a ‘champion’s soup,’ with double the honey!”

(End of Chapter Three)