Chapter 10: Harmony is Precious

Step nine—the critical move. The old man furrowed his brow, remembering that he had lost at this very juncture himself.
“Kid, don’t move your knight! Drop your cannon to the bottom and check him! Just now, the old man suffered at this step! If you check with the cannon, his general rises, then you push your pawn for another check. He can’t descend, he can only lick it. Now, when you jump your knight, since he didn’t escape, you’ll have a hanging knight, and with a horizontal chariot, it’s over! Fifty bucks in your pocket! Kid, even if you went home and played him for ten, wouldn’t you still win an extra fifty?”
This move was a trap. Dropping the cannon was fine, pushing the pawn was no problem, but when jumping the knight, the opponent could move his elephant to guard, and the subsequent stalemate would never happen. Wen Xiaocheng remained unmoved, not rushing for victory, but instead drew his chariot back to gobble up the pawn that had limited his old marshal.
“Kid, you’re ignoring advice—just a few more steps and you’ll checkmate him. Why retreat your chariot?”
The old man beside him frowned as well, unable to see the subtlety in what seemed a clumsy play. But Wen Xiaocheng understood: this move, appearing awkward, was in fact clever, silently dissolving several traps and dragging the game into an endless cycle of exchanges—a certain draw.
“If I jump the knight, he doesn’t have to move his general, and if he moves his elephant, I’m lost. This uncle is going easy on me; I don’t need to win—drawing is as good as victory!” Wen Xiaocheng spoke with deliberate innocence, making it impossible for the others to take issue with him.
The stall owner now shed any hint of contempt, taking the game seriously. But the chess manual was rigid: every step had its prescribed response. One careless move meant losing the whole board; there was little room for improvisation. The kid across from him played steadily, seeking not glory but flawlessness, defending with every move, protecting his old marshal like a fortress, forcing exchanges. Now, Black was left with a pawn, a knight, and a cannon, with no hope for victory, while Red had a chariot and a cannon, seemingly with the upper hand, but in truth gaining no advantage. If this pace continued, a draw was inevitable. The stall owner steeled himself and made a change, deliberately exposing a weakness to lure Red into attack—a step outside the bounds of the manual.
The ancient manual, passed down for centuries and studied by countless generations, had considered every possibility. “One careless move, and the whole board is lost”—this applied to Red and Black alike. If you played strictly by the manual, the outcome would always be a draw, but one slip meant only defeat.
Yet Wen Xiaocheng did not wish for him to lose.
Leave a margin for others, for you may meet again. If he followed the manual step by step and snatched victory from one mistake, he would cut off the man’s livelihood; in front of his companions, the fifty yuan would not be so easily pocketed. A draw was best—since the opponent had gone easy on him and promised a draw counted as victory, this win could not be replicated. Even if he forced a draw, it wouldn’t ruin the man’s trade; thus, the fifty yuan would be earned more graciously.
The old chess-watcher’s eyes brightened, seeing hope through the fog. The game had reached clarity, though how to force defeat remained to be seen. The advantage was established; barring mistakes, victory was possible.

But the young man playing Red remained steadfast, always pressing but never striving for more, finally forcing his opponent into exchanges in the corner. The chariot took out the pawn and knight, leaving both sides with only a cannon—no pieces left for attack, and the draw was sealed.
Wen Xiaocheng said nothing, continuing to play. Even though any seasoned observer could see the draw, he still took his time, pondering each move for dozens of seconds, exhausting everyone’s patience before placing his piece. Even the stall owner’s accomplices grew restless, exchanging glances, until finally the stall owner conceded.
“This game’s a draw—I lose!”
The stall owner gritted his teeth. Losing fifty yuan was trivial; wasting so much time was unbearable! Crowds were gathering, and anyone who knew chess would stop for a look. If it were a brilliant game, some would eagerly study it, but now, the ancient manual had been played into a board of dead cannons wandering aimlessly, and the most infuriating thing was the kid using elephants and advisors to prop up his cannon, amusing himself. Anyone could see it was a draw; passersby assumed the two kids were just fooling around, costing the stall owner business.
“Kid, you’ve got skill. Losing fifty to you, I accept it! I bet, I pay! I keep my word!”
He cursed inwardly but kept his face pleasant, eager to send the boy on his way. Normally, a few moves decided victory or defeat, and ten yuan changed hands in two or three minutes; on good days, he could make several hundred yuan. But he’d wasted nearly an hour on this kid—time is money!
Wen Xiaocheng grinned, taking the money: “Thank you, uncle, you went easy on me!” He was genuinely polite.
The stall owner waved helplessly—just go, today’s misfortune is meeting you!
Others were indifferent, but the old man who had lost earlier had figured things out. Watching the first dozen moves, the boy’s skill was clearly above his own, but after the other’s mistake, he could have won, yet the boy remained calm, seeking not victory but a draw. Only when the stall owner conceded did he finish the game—his mind reached far beyond the chessboard.
Wen Xiaocheng was oblivious to the old man’s musings, slipping the fifty yuan into his pocket and feeling invigorated, as if the step of his stride matched the rhythm of a pop song. Fifty yuan wasn’t much, but for a poor child, it was tantamount to a small fortune. His grandmother pedaled a tricycle forty kilometers to and fro, selling candied hawthorn all day and barely earning a hundred yuan.
But this fifty yuan could never be taken home; money earned this way would be thrown in the trash even if turned into fragrant pork—grandmother would call it unclean.

Clean money is hard to earn these days.
It was rush hour; the streets were thronged with people, bicycles and electric scooters winding like a dragon. Vendors lined both sides, their cries rising and falling. In the busiest spots, cyclists had to dismount and push, and cars avoided the street altogether—it was impassable at this hour.
Twenty yuan bought an identical backpack as before, leaving thirty in his stash. A kilo of green beans, half a kilo of pork belly; there were still some potatoes and eggplants at home—perfect for a stew. The farther east he walked, the more dilapidated and desolate it became—a cluster of low houses, small courtyards walled to chest height. Xiaocheng’s home was there.

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This book claims to recharge your intelligence, though that’s just Old Dao’s bravado. Still, as someone in their thirties, living without ambition yields some insights. Through the handling of events in the story, I hope readers will pause and think, and perhaps gain something—that’s enough. For example, in this chapter, why, when victory was assured, did Xiaocheng insist on a draw? And why, having secured a draw, did he wait for the stall owner to propose it rather than himself?
If you’re a student, school is your chessboard; if you work, the office is your chessboard. Too many people only focus on the moves, rarely noticing what lies beyond it. The significance of this chapter lies here: life isn’t just about confrontation on the board, but also compromise beyond it. Only by stepping out of the game can you discover greater wonders, for you’ve raised your perspective. We usually call this height “vision.”
Such a lofty book deserves your collection and your votes!