Chapter Nine: Old Zhou Finally Exploded—and Broke Down in Tears Afterwards

Page 1/3

Chapter 9 of Volume One: Old Zhou Finally Let Loose: Burst Out Crying After the Bomb

The eaves of the City God Temple’s card parlor still bore damp stains of soup—spilled earlier when the Underworld Judge miscounted the cards. The wind blew, causing faint brownish marks to seep out, resembling a crooked line painted on a banner. Wang Erma stuffed the last sunflower seed into the mouth of the little red-coated imp crouched at his feet, then brushed the shells from his hands. “Go check if the Judge has finished recording; don’t hold up the next round.”

The little imp scampered over quickly, squatted beside the Judge, and peeked at his ledger. After a moment, he called out, “Master Wang! The Judge has recorded ‘Four-player Mahjong: 4 players’!”

“Recording nonsense!” Wang Erma chuckled and glanced at the opposing “Sour Poetry Team”—two scholarly ghosts huddled together whispering. The one on the left dipped his finger in saliva and circled on the table, seemingly counting cards; the other gripped a crumpled sheet of paper—the poem Little Li had tossed earlier—and was now annotating it with a brush, correcting the tonal patterns.

“Quit dawdling!” The King of Hell sat on a stone bench above the table, flicking his sunflower seed shells onto the ground. “Final round! The decider! Winners get a Four-Chong entry ticket; losers... losers have to wash Meng Po’s soup bowls for three days!”

“Why do losers have to wash soup bowls?” The scholar ghost on the right protested, setting down his brush. “We’re the ‘Sour Poetry Team,’ not the ‘Dishwashing Team’!”

“Because I’m the referee!” the King of Hell declared, pounding the bench. The leg cracked sharply, making him quickly retract his hand—this bench was crafted last year from the roots of the otherworldly red spider lily, fragile as glass. Once, he’d smashed a piece by pounding too hard and was punished by the Queen of Hell with three days’ ban from handling cards.

Meng Po crouched by the table, picking up sunflower seed shells, and straightened with a laugh. “Washing soup bowls isn’t so bad; my bowls still have a little sweet broth at the bottom you can dip into.” She pulled a chipped coarse ceramic bowl from her apron pocket; inside, a small pool of amber-colored broth sparkled, making Old Zhou gulp.

“Old Zhou, stop staring!” Wang Erma tugged his sleeve. “It’s your turn now. You’re on my team this round; Little Li is the strategist.”

Old Zhou hunched his shoulders and slowly moved to the table. Just as he was about to sit, he suddenly stood again—uncomfortable with the chips in his pocket. He had won five Underworld coins yesterday but was reluctant to spend them, stuffing them deep into his pocket. Now they pressed painfully against his hip bone, yet he clutched his waistband tightly, unwilling to take them out. “It’s... it’s nothing…”

“Sit down!” Wang Erma pushed him onto the bench. “If you lose, those five coins won’t even cover washing the soup bowls.”

Old Zhou finally sat obediently, hands resting on his knees like a schoolboy. The scholar ghost opposite chuckled, “Master Wang, is this teammate here to play cards or to stand in punishment?”

“Enough chatter!” Little Li rolled up his paper and knocked it on the table. “Sour Poetry Team, listen up! We will win this round! The ‘Ma Master Team’ is going into battle, even the card gods will concede three points!”

“Card gods, huh?” The scholar ghost on the left lazily drew his cards. “If the Judge hadn’t miscounted just now, would you have even won a round?”

“A miscount is still luck!” Little Li lifted his chin. “Luck is part of skill! ‘When luck arrives, it can’t be stopped; even a Judge’s error aids me’ — how’s that for rhyme?”

“No rhyme,” the scholar ghost on the right immediately retorted. “‘Arrives’ is a falling tone; ‘me’ is a rising tone—no tonal harmony…”

“Cut it out!” Wang Erma waved his hand. If they kept arguing, it would be dark before they started. He shuffled the freshly dealt cards from the Judge and placed two on the table. Then he heard a “click”—Old Zhou was nervously tapping the table with his fingernails, sweat pouring between his fingers, leaving a damp patch on the wood.

“Don’t be nervous,” Wang Erma whispered. “Play as usual. If you have a bomb, play it. If you blow it up, I’ll treat you to Meng Po’s sweet broth.”

Old Zhou shook his head vigorously, like a rattle. “No, no bombing... What if it’s the wrong moment? What if there’s a bigger one later?” He hugged his cards tightly, as if afraid someone might snatch them.

Wang Erma glanced at his hand—he had peeked earlier while dealing: Old Zhou held four 3s—a bomb. Not a big one, but the game had just started with a few single cards played. If the opponents played a sequence next, it would be the perfect moment to bomb. Just as he was about to warn him, the scholar ghost opposite flicked down an Ace. “Playing an Ace. Let’s see who can beat it.”

“I’ll take it!” Little Li called out, reaching for Wang Erma’s cards, but Wang Erma stopped him. “Don’t move! I have the Big Joker.” He slowly pulled it out and placed it on the table. “Big Joker beats Ace, no problem, right?”

The two scholar ghosts exchanged a glance but said nothing. The one on the right drew three 5s. “Three of a kind with an extra one.”

“I’ll go!” Old Zhou murmured, drawing three 7s from the pile. He cautiously placed them on the table but retracted halfway, looking up at Wang Erma, “Is... is this okay?”

“Play it!” Wang Erma nodded. “Three 7s beat three 5s, perfect.”

Page 2/3

Old Zhou finally laid down his cards, his fingers trembling slightly. The scholar ghost on the left snorted, drawing three 10s. “Three 10s. Let’s see how you handle that.”

Now Wang Erma and Old Zhou had no cards to beat it—Wang Erma only had three 8s left, and Old Zhou had accidentally played a single Jack earlier. Little Li paced anxiously, knocking his paper tube on the table loudly. “What do we do? ‘Three 10s come arrogantly; we have no cards to block’—what now?”

“Quiet,” Wang Erma said, holding him back. “Let them play.”

The scholar ghosts smirked. The one on the right drew a single 4. “Single four. Your turn.”

Wang Erma played a 5; the left scholar ghost played a 6; Old Zhou a 7; the right scholar ghost an 8... Round and round the cards went, dwindling steadily. Old Zhou’s face grew paler—he still gripped the four 3s tightly, knuckles turning blue from the pressure, sweat dripping onto the table.

“Something’s wrong,” Wang Erma squinted at the opponents. The scholar ghost on the right kept glancing at the one on the left, who tapped a rhythm under the table—“thump-thump... thump,” like a secret signal. Wang Erma suddenly recalled Old Zhou mentioning yesterday that these two scholar ghosts often played “5-9 sequences,” their signature move against the Sour Poetry Team.

“Old Zhou,” Wang Erma whispered, “besides the four 3s, what else do you have?”

Old Zhou pursed his lips and pushed his cards forward, revealing two 2s, a small Joker, and three scattered cards.

“Good hand,” Wang Erma breathed easier. “When they play their sequences, you bomb.”

“No, no bombing!” Old Zhou immediately pulled his cards back, face pale. “What if they don’t have sequences? What if we have no cards left after bombing? What if...”

“No what-ifs!” Wang Erma patted his shoulder. “Trust me. Blow that bomb, and I’ll buy you two jin of sunflower seeds—not Meng Po’s ‘memory seeds,’ but the five-spice ones Xiao Hei smuggled from the mortal world, salty-flavored.”

Old Zhou’s Adam’s apple bobbed, eyes brightening, but he still shook his head. “No, can’t... seeds are expensive. What if I bomb wrongly and waste them...”

Before he finished, the scholar ghost opposite slammed down a “5-9 sequence!” “Take that!”

As the cards hit the table, a sudden gust swirled a string of little ghostly apparitions above the table—not single little demons like before, but five linked hand in hand, snarling, floating toward Old Zhou. The little red-coated imp squealed and dove into Meng Po’s arms. Meng Po patted his back, laughing, “Don’t be scared. These are just illusions triggered by the sequence—no teeth.”

Old Zhou seemed nailed to the bench, eyes fixed on the chain of spirits, clutching the four 3s tighter, sweat dripping from his fingers leaving small wet rings on the cards.

“Play it!” Little Li stomped, desperate. “Old Zhou, you have a bomb! Four 3s! Bomb them!”

“Don’t rush!” Wang Erma held Little Li back, turning to Old Zhou—his face scrunched like a steamed bun, lips trembling, as if wrestling with himself. He recalled the fourth chapter when Old Zhou had refused to bomb four 2s and ended up crying after being “springed” by opponents—Old Zhou said bombs should be saved for the most crucial moment, but always missed the timing.

“Old Zhou,” Wang Erma softened his voice, leaning close, “Doesn’t that chain of ghostly spirits look like a string of candied hawthorn from the mortal world? Think of your bomb as popping that string—it’s crisp and satisfying.”

Old Zhou didn’t reply, but his eyes flicked toward the apparitions—they wobbled their legs, indeed like a crooked string of candied fruit.

“And,” Wang Erma added, “if you bomb now, we win. We get the Four-Chong entry ticket. That means four decks, bombs galore. You can bomb as much as you want, no one will stop you.”

“Re-really?” Old Zhou finally whispered, voice trembling like a leaf in the autumn wind.

“Really!” Wang Erma patted his chest. “I, Wang Erma, have been at the neighborhood card table for twenty years and never lied to a card friend!”

The scholar ghosts opposite, seeing no move, grinned triumphantly. “No cards to beat? Then we win this round!” The one on the right reached to collect the cards.

“Don’t touch!” Old Zhou suddenly shouted, soft but fierce. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and flung the four 3s onto the table—“Bomb!”

Page 3/3

As the cards hit the table, a muffled “bang” echoed, louder than the earlier sequence illusions. Four black little ghostly figures shot out of the cards, clawing wildly at the scholar ghosts. One even hooked a claw around the right scholar ghost’s beard.

“Ouch!” The scholar ghost jumped back, dropping his brush, ink splattering down his pants.

Old Zhou kept his eyes closed, hand frozen mid-air, lips trembling as if waiting for Wang Erma to scold him for bombing at the wrong time.

“Great bomb!” Wang Erma slapped the table, startling Old Zhou. “Perfect timing! None of their sequences can beat your bomb!”

Little Li joined the cheer, “‘Old Zhou’s bomb rings loud and clear, making opponents cry for their mothers’—Old Zhou, you’re amazing!”

Old Zhou blinked, looking down at the four 3s, then at the stunned scholar ghosts opposite, and suddenly burst into tears.

“Huh? Why crying?” Wang Erma hurriedly patted his back. “You bombed right! No mistake!”

“This is my first time bombing in my entire ghost life...” Old Zhou clung to Wang Erma’s arm, tears and snot streaming. “I was always afraid to bomb wrong, afraid to waste. When I closed my eyes just now, my heart nearly jumped out…”

“What’s there to cry about!” Meng Po approached with the soup bowl, setting it before Old Zhou. “Here, drink some sweet broth to calm your nerves. I put osmanthus in it; it’s very sweet.”

Old Zhou sniffled, lifted the bowl, took a sip—tears still falling—but the corner of his mouth twitched up in a secret smile.

The Judge, having finished his record, leaned over, glanced at the table and at the weeping Old Zhou, then sternly said, “Bomb was legal, according to the rules.” He paused, then pulled a sunflower seed from his pocket and handed it over. “Here, a reward.”

Old Zhou caught the seed, clutching it tightly, crying even harder—but this time it was a joyful cry, shoulders shaking like a little mouse caught stealing candy.

“All right, all right, keep playing!” The King of Hell shouted from the stone bench. “Don’t just cry; there are still cards left!”

Wang Erma pulled Old Zhou’s remaining cards toward him—the rest could be played smoothly: two 2s, then the small Joker, finally the three scattered cards. Just as he was about to play, Old Zhou grabbed his hand, sobbing, “I... I’ll play…”

He carefully placed the two 2s on the table, glanced at the scholar ghosts opposite—they didn’t move—then slammed down the small Joker with a loud “clap,” louder than the bomb.

“Done! We won!” Little Li jumped up, tossing his paper into the air. It fluttered down perfectly onto the King of Hell’s stone bench.

The King picked up the paper, eyed the crooked poem, then glanced at the still-sobbing Old Zhou and suddenly laughed. “Well done, Old Zhou, you’ve grown! Don’t keep holding onto your bombs; when it’s time, just bomb. Next time, I’ll treat you to sunflower seeds!”

Old Zhou nodded, shelling the seeds and crunching them loudly, tears still streaking his face but smiling with his teeth showing.

Wang Erma looked at him and suddenly felt this underworld card game was quite good—livelier than the neighborhood tables in the mortal world, and the players more genuine. He patted Old Zhou’s back. “Come on, let’s collect your prize! The Four-Chong entry ticket—let’s see what it looks like.”

Old Zhou stood, followed him, but stopped after a few steps, turned back, and carefully picked up the four 3s from the table. He neatly stacked them and tucked them into his pocket—next to his five Underworld coins. This time they didn’t press painfully but felt reassuring instead.