Chapter 16: Looking for Trouble

After pondering for quite some time, the vendor still couldn’t grasp the brilliance of that move. He decided to stop overthinking and simply followed the family chess manual, setting up the kill four moves ahead. Yet, the next move by the red pieces was a leisurely one. He understood it had no offensive intent, but it extended the original four-move kill to six. It was nothing more than a desperate delay.

By this point, the game had completely strayed from the chess manual, leaving the vendor without a script to rely on—he could only respond move by move. Wen Xiaocheng, holding the red pieces, seemed only now to realize the impending danger a few moves ahead and began to defend, attempting to encircle and block the black pieces. But in the vendor’s eyes, defeat was already inevitable; there was no turning back.

Unexpectedly, the red side abruptly broke its own pattern and, in a rather foolish move, sacrificed a chariot to capture a pawn. Though this temporarily defused the threat, the numerical disadvantage was glaring; it was only a matter of time before defeat. The manual did account for such scenarios, but with such a disparity in forces and no sure-kill position, victory was deemed impossible. Thus, these lines weren’t studied in depth—the outcome was obvious.

Now, with the game diverging from the manual, the vendor felt a twinge of nervousness. Yet as the match went on, the outcome was clear. Neither side had a sure win at this point, but black was up a pawn and a cannon—a clear advantage. In fact, by this stage, even the manual would have ended. The logic was simple: if you can’t win when you’re up a pawn and a cannon, don’t bother analyzing the endgame.

Strangely, though, in this position—one the manual wouldn’t even bother to comment on—the vendor found himself on edge with every move. Each piece he laid down demanded careful thought, as if every simple gesture from his opponent concealed endless traps. Even with superior forces, he dared not be careless. Another ten or so moves passed, and the vendor’s head was buzzing. The game, which was supposed to be the family’s “Nine Campaigns for Central Plains,” had been battered by this young opponent into what resembled the traditional endgame “The Belt Enters the Court,” at the seventh move.

“The Belt Enters the Court” is a forced draw; the vendor vaguely remembered the sequence. Though the game had slipped from his control, a draw wasn’t a loss. He played a move from that sequence—only to realize, with a jolt, something was wrong! The board only looked similar to “The Belt Enters the Court”—his opponent had deliberately created this illusion. The pieces were positioned identically, but according to the manual, it should have been black’s turn. Now, it was red’s turn, and that one move’s difference was fatal.

What followed needs little elaboration. After a single misstep, there was no hope of recovery—the rest fell apart like rotted wood. The vendor lost this game in a cold sweat, his body trembling. The treasured family manual—broken by this kid! He still didn’t understand whether he’d fallen into a trap or if there was another solution to the puzzle, but he had lost, two hundred yuan gone, and the group was set to lose everything today.

Watching Wen Xiaocheng pocket the money with a grin, the vendor’s hatred only grew. Taking advantage of a distraction, he signaled to an accomplice. Wen Xiaocheng left with the money; the accomplice quietly tailed him.

Street chess endgames are half about skill, half about street smarts. Under the guise of friendly competition, it’s really a game of exploiting information asymmetry to scam people. But since the stakes are small, the authorities turn a blind eye. In this world, there are actors, lures, and of course, enforcers to keep order. Yesterday, Wen Xiaocheng won fifty yuan; not a big blow. Today, he won two games and walked off with two hundred, breaking two endgames in a row. If he kept strolling around here unscathed, the group might as well be working for him. They had to teach him a lesson.

Someone was following him, but Wen Xiaocheng seemed unaware. It was only a little past nine in the morning—too early to go home. He wandered alone along the riverside. It wasn’t a weekend, and the morning rush was over; elderly folks out for walks and breakfast had mostly gone home. The street was nearly empty. His pursuer was pleased—if the boy had gone somewhere crowded, there’d be no way to act, but he was heading somewhere increasingly deserted. Up ahead was an alley, the perfect spot to make a move.

As Wen Xiaocheng walked forward, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to find the bespectacled old man from the chess stall. The man was in his sixties, hair white, glasses perched on his nose—a scholarly type, the sort who’d spent twenty years in academia to develop such an air.

“Young man, your chess is truly impressive!”

The old gentleman, delighted by the encounter, had found a kindred spirit and wanted to chat. There were still things in the “Grand Western Campaign” he hadn’t figured out, and the way the “Nine Campaigns for Central Plains” had morphed into “The Belt Enters the Court” was nothing short of miraculous. Wen Xiaocheng wasn’t one to study chess endgames; he only remembered “The Belt Enters the Court” because the vendor had played it before. He solved puzzles with his extraordinary memory and analytical power, like a human computer. But the old man, who loved studying chess, was fascinated by the intricacies of each move and didn’t want to miss the chance to speak with such a talented young player.

Tall and thin, he bore a slight resemblance to Ma Sanli, cheerful and not at all unpleasant. Under other circumstances, Wen Xiaocheng would have gladly chatted, since an elder's experience is invaluable—no matter how clever you are, you can't match decades of life wisdom. Talking with such a person could only broaden your horizons. But today, he was in a rush.

“Young man, in your ‘Grand Western Campaign,’ there was clearly a lethal move on the fifteenth turn that you didn’t take. The game moved too quickly for me to keep up, but I’m sure it was a trap. I’ve puzzled over it for ages and still can’t see what’s wrong. If you have time, would you come to my place? We’ll have some tea, I’ll set up the board, and you can enlighten me? My home’s just over in Riverside Gardens—right across the way. And of course, I’ll treat you to lunch afterward. How about it?”

Wen Xiaocheng was anxious but remained polite to his elder. “You mean the move where you take the bottom rank with the chariot to checkmate, right? That’s a feint. If I played that, and tried to finish with chariot and pawn, the opponent would defend with the elephant, escaping and counterattacking. Or if I moved the cannon to block the rank-two chariot, he’d shift his pawn to the same file, then chariot advances, checks three times in a row—even if he can't kill me, I’d lose my chariot and the game would fall apart.”

The game played out in Wen Xiaocheng’s mind—he explained blindfolded, but the old man was still perplexed. The “Grand Western Campaign” was too complex; it couldn’t be explained in a few words.

“Well then…”

Wen Xiaocheng could see the old man wouldn’t sleep without figuring this out. So he said, “Sir, just give me your address. I have something urgent to do. After you tell me, please go straight home. I’ll be at your place in half an hour. I’ll explain everything about the ‘Grand Western Campaign’ and the ‘Nine Campaigns for Central Plains’—every detail. You can use these endgames to earn money, I won’t even charge a patent fee. How does that sound?”

The old man, a bit dazed, gave his address. He didn’t see the boy write it down, but just nodded and shuffled off. He wondered, what urgent matter could be done in half an hour? And why such a rush to get him moving?

“My boy, it’s fate that we met. What urgent business do you have? Maybe I can help?” The old man truly felt a kinship.

Wen Xiaocheng was desperate. Sir, just leaving quickly would be the greatest help!

But the old man’s stubbornness flared; he grabbed Wen Xiaocheng’s arm. “Tell me. Maybe I can help!”

Wen Xiaocheng had no choice but to whisper in his ear, “Sir, I won that two hundred yuan at the stall just now, right? Their money isn’t so easy to take. Someone’s following me. If I go with you, I’ll just lead them to your house—would you ever have peace again? Please, just go. I’ll run, lose them in a few turns, and then come to your place. Alright?”

Despite his thin frame, the old man had plenty of spirit. He thumped his chest, “Don’t be afraid, boy! With me here, let’s see who dares touch you. Is there no law anymore?”

Wen Xiaocheng was about to cry. Grandpa! Dear old grandpa! You’re the problem! Let me be honest—I just want them to beat me up. Please, don’t interfere!

——————

Judging by the chapter’s title, you probably expected some side character to act arrogant and get slapped down—instead, it’s the protagonist looking for trouble. That’s just how Dao-ge rolls. I bet the clever readers have guessed why Xiaocheng advocated peace last time, but now is deliberately stirring things up. Someone praised my writing, saying it’s so elegant I should write about Go for a more poetic atmosphere, but have you ever seen a Go stall on the street? Aside from Su Xinghe in Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils, perhaps.