Chapter 9: Beyond the Game of Chess

The truly astute never keep their heads down, focusing solely on the chessboard before them; often, the real drama unfolds among the onlookers gathered around. During the course of this game, Wen Xiaocheng had already discerned the identities and roles of those encircling the board. Among the six or seven people present, two were obviously shills for the stall owner. One of them had just won a game and was holding onto his hundred-yuan prize without leaving, instead offering unsolicited advice to the elderly man currently playing. Another, who had just lost, was also loudly coaching from the side, warning the old man not to move his knight, as that had been his own downfall. These two were clearly in cahoots. The rest, who seemed genuinely engrossed in the game, were outsiders, while the bespectacled old gentleman at the board was evidently about to become a victim.

Sure enough, after three or five moves, the elderly man was forced into a dead end. To be fair, his skill was not bad—at least his first eight moves were flawless—but on the ninth, he miscalculated, growing greedy and overreaching, only to fall into his opponent’s trap. At this point, the two shills sprang into action, urging him to play another round.

“Sir, you just wouldn’t listen to me—should’ve used the cannon at the base! This is not the time to move your knight, that was the only mistake! I’m anxious on your behalf! Hey, don’t let the stall owner fool you and run off—let’s win back those thirty yuan today, just the three of us!”

The stall owner, on the other hand, remained unhurried. “Listen to yourselves! Betting ten yuan for a chance at a hundred—this business is bleeding me dry! You all saw it, didn’t he just win a hundred from me? This is just a friendly game, nothing like gambling—we’re all here to analyze and enjoy this endgame. Sir, you were just two or three moves away from beating me! You’re a man of means, surely a few yuan is nothing to you, but if I lose, I’m out a hundred! Really, let’s call it quits—you’ve nearly won as it is. I’m just a humble hawker; wouldn’t it be unsporting for you to walk away with my hundred? Besides, if you want to keep playing, let’s switch to a new endgame—you’ve solved this one already; any more would be taking unfair advantage.”

Though the stall owner played the part of the pitiable victim, the two shills were relentless. “If you set up a stall, you can’t be afraid of challengers. When the old man lost money to you, you didn’t say a word! Now that we’ve figured out the game, you want to run? Not so fast! We won’t let you change the scenario! Sir, we’re on your side—stick with this endgame, and make him cough up that hundred! Take it home and buy some spare ribs for your grandson!”

The bespectacled old man, scholarly in appearance, must have been an intellectual. He’d been here all afternoon and had already lost three games in a row. Thirty yuan wasn’t a great loss, but the sting of defeat was real. Now, egged on by the crowd, he hesitated. He’d calculated several possibilities but hadn’t anticipated his opponent’s crafty cannon sacrifice. The advice to move the side cannon to the base was actually sound, but the subsequent moves remained murky.

“Uncle, may I play? I know how to play chess too,” Wen Xiaocheng, who had been standing nearby, spoke up.

The stall owner looked up. The boy was about five foot nine, still young, dirty and unkempt—likely a middle-schooler. Fleecing customers was business as usual, and a clueless youngster would be an easy mark—any profit was better than none.

“Do you have any money?”

Wen Xiaocheng looked a bit embarrassed. “I only have five yuan. Let’s play for five. If I lose, I’ll give you five; if I win, you just give me fifty.”

It wasn’t that Wen Xiaocheng was penniless. Children of poor families grow up quickly. His grandmother went to the county to sell candied hawthorn, often returning late, so it was up to him to buy groceries after school. Sometimes he even helped her stock up at the market on weekends, fetching big hawthorns from mountain farmers. He usually carried ten or twenty yuan in his pocket. He did have ten yuan and was confident of winning, but to break this endgame, five would suffice.

Beyond the chessboard, another game was afoot.

The stall owner had two accomplices. Judging by their conversation, they’d only won thirty yuan from the old man this afternoon; the others were just shills, not real gamblers. So far, the group’s earnings amounted to thirty yuan, and perhaps there had been other victims, but as it was not yet three in the afternoon, the tally couldn’t be much higher. If he, a mere boy, managed to win a hundred from them, they’d be seventy in the red—unlikely to let him go. But with another hapless old man still waiting to be fleeced, and with thirty yuan already pocketed, letting him win fifty should be acceptable. Making a scene over a twenty-yuan difference would only expose their lack of credibility, and wasn’t worth it.

The stall owner initially had no intention of humoring Wen Xiaocheng, but seeing the old man’s wavering, he figured winning five yuan from a child was child’s play and might even lure the old man back in. A crowd attracted more money—someone would always be tempted to try their luck for a ten-yuan stake.

“Alright, since you’re just a kid, I won’t hold it against you. I’ll even go easy on you!” the stall owner said as he reset the board.

“Uncle, since I’m just a kid, if we draw, that counts as my win, right?” Wen Xiaocheng added.

The stall owner was startled, but quickly recovered. He was overthinking it. This endgame’s permutations were endless; to force a draw required twenty-three precise moves with not a single misstep. Unless one had memorized ancient chess manuals, it was impossible for an average person. Twenty-three moves might sound simple, but each offered at least two options, sometimes more, making for hundreds of thousands of possible combinations. To find the one path to victory among all these—easier said than done. It was like solving a Rubik’s Cube without ever learning the algorithms; nearly impossible.

“Alright, if you draw, you win!” the stall owner agreed.

With the terms settled, the bespectacled old man yielded his seat. A new player had entered the fray, and perhaps the boy’s fresh approach would inspire new strategies. The old man showed no sign of underestimating Wen Xiaocheng; after all, chess knows no age, and young prodigies were hardly unheard of.

Wen Xiaocheng took his seat. The first three moves were standard fare, nothing unexpected. From the fourth move, the two accomplices began their commentary, while the elderly victim, still brooding over his loss, remained silent, deep in thought over the previous game.

“Kid, move your rook across! Whatever you do, don’t move your knight—he’ll block with his cannon. That’s where I tripped up last time!”

Wen Xiaocheng took the advice, shifting his rook across to check the black pieces. The shills didn’t lie about every move; the first tip was genuine, building trust before steering him astray at a critical moment. That’s how all cons worked: some truth to gain trust, then the real deception.

Wen Xiaocheng remained unfazed, playing on. He had already rehearsed all twenty-three moves in his mind and needed no further thought, though he made a show of pondering each one, never letting it seem too easy.

The game continued...

———

This world is far less simple than we imagine. What takes place within the confines of a chessboard may seem straightforward, but those caught up in the game cannot help but consider what lies beyond it. Solving the problems on the board requires cleverness; perceiving the machinations outside the game demands true wisdom.