Chapter 10: Rookie Tournament Champion: The Prize is a "Four-Combo Entry Ticket"

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Under the cracks of the stone bricks in the City God Temple’s card arena, there were still scattered sunflower seed shells—leftover from Old Zhou’s earlier crying, now blown by the wind to rest near the feet of the Underworld’s Judge. The Judge was crouched down, copying the “Number of Players Form,” and upon reaching “Three-player Landlord: 3 players,” his pen hesitated, then he looked up sharply at the little red-clad imp who was grinning incessantly. Annoyed, he darkened the number “3” on the paper so heavily it seemed he might pierce the sheet.

“Stop copying! Stop copying!” The King of Hell jumped down from the stone bench, his robe sweeping over the card table and stirring a few fallen red spider lily petals that lay scattered atop. Limping from a twisted ankle sustained while leaping down too hastily to announce the results, he made his way to Wang Erma, hands on hips, trying to catch his breath. “Wang Erma!” he cleared his throat and deliberately raised his voice, “In this Underworld Landlord Newcomer Tournament, you—”

“Wait!” Wang Erma raised a hand to interrupt, reaching into Old Zhou’s pocket to retrieve a single sunflower seed given by the Judge, which he then pressed into the King of Hell’s palm. “Here, wet your whistle. Do you think the little imps can’t hear you shouting so loud?”

The King of Hell clutched the seed for a moment, surprised, then slipped it back into Wang Erma’s hand. “I don’t need it!” he declared, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Turning to the ghostly onlookers gathered around, he announced loudly, “Listen well! The champion of this Newcomer Tournament is none other than Wang Erma! The prize—” He deliberately dragged out the word, reaching into his robe and pulling out a crumpled scroll of paper, as if hastily taken from his pocket.

“Your Highness, don’t tell me you lost that ticket?” Meng Po approached, carrying a bowl of soup, with osmanthus blossoms clinging to its rim—leftovers from when she served Old Zhou earlier. She glanced at the scroll. “I saw Little Black deliver it to you this morning, tied with a red spider lily string. How come it looks like this now?”

“Mind your own business!” The King of Hell glared at her and cautiously unrolled the paper. As it unfurled with a rustle, a small piece broke off the corner, causing him to quickly press it down in alarm. “This is the ‘Four-Flush Entry Pass’! Specially made in the Underworld!” He handed the scroll to Wang Erma. “Look, it even bears my official seal!”

Wang Erma leaned in to examine it—the paper was a dark crimson, rough to the touch, as if made from pulp crafted from red spider lily petals. The words “Four-Flush Entry Pass” were scrawled unevenly, and beside them was a vermilion seal, smudged beyond recognition except for the faint outline of the character “Yan.” He flicked the corner lightly; the scroll was limp, as if soaked in broth.

“Is this ticket... sturdy?” Wang Erma raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want it to fall apart if I walk a few steps with it in my pocket.”

“Nonsense!” The King of Hell grew flustered and snatched the ticket back for another feel. “It’s made from silt from the River of Forgetfulness mixed with red spider lily pulp—impervious to water and fire! Don’t believe me? Try it—” He reached to dip the ticket into Meng Po’s soup bowl, but she swatted his hand away.

“Don’t pollute my soup!” Meng Po moved the bowl back. “If that ticket soaks up the soup, the ink might run, and you won’t be allowed into the Four-Flush tournament. Who’s going to compensate then?”

The King of Hell withdrew his hand, sulking, and reoffered the ticket. “Take it! This is a valuable item! With it, you can enter the Underworld Four-Flush Qualifying Tournament. Win that, and you can climb to Six-Flush. Once you claim the championship at Six-Flush, I’ll pull strings for you upon reincarnation—”

“Pull strings for what?” Wang Erma carefully folded the ticket into a small square and slipped it into the pocket where he used to keep his neighborhood access card, now patched. “Could you maybe rig me a reincarnation where there’s a card table right at my neighborhood gate? Preferably on the first floor, so I can just head downstairs and join a game.”

“That’s nothing!” The King of Hell thumped his chest. “Once you win Six-Flush, I’ll rig a reincarnation where someone invites you to play every single day! Sunflower seeds at every meal, and the games never lack players!”

“Really?” Old Zhou suddenly came over, eyes shining like silver coins dipped in Meng Po’s soup. He wasn’t crying anymore, though tear tracks still marked his cheeks, and he stared fixedly at the ticket in Wang Erma’s pocket. “Is the Four-Flush game hard? I want to... I want to play too.”

“You?” The King of Hell sized him up and down. “Yesterday you held onto a bomb card too afraid to play it, and Four-Flush uses four decks—can you keep track?”

Old Zhou’s face went pale; he stepped back, but his hand unconsciously reached for Wang Erma’s pocket, as if afraid the ticket might fly away. Wang Erma patted his shoulder. “What’s there to fear? Four decks? We’ll just play blindly! I’ve always relied on guesswork for card games anyway.”

“Exactly!” Little Li picked up the poem he had tossed on the ground, dusting it off. “‘Boss Ma’s skills are sharp, guessing blindly still wins, Four-Flush’s no big deal, the arena’s my domain’—Boss Ma, how’s my poem?”

“Not great,” Wang Erma smiled. “But it sounds better than the Judge’s ‘Number of Players Form.’”

“Who are you calling that?” The Judge, having just finished copying the last line, threw down his pen and came over holding his notebook. “My ‘Number of Players Form’ is an official Underworld document—much more legit than your guesswork game!” He glanced at the ticket, then frowned. “Wait a minute, Your Highness. Shouldn't the Four-Flush Entry Pass say ‘Requires a team of three players’? Why doesn’t it?”

The King of Hell blinked, grabbed the ticket again, and inspected it. His face flushed scarlet—besides the words “Four-Flush Entry Pass” and his smeared seal, there was nothing else. “Maybe… it was printed wrongly!” he blurted, forcing a smile. “The rule is what it is! Four-Flush requires teams of three; Wang Erma, you’ll have to find two teammates!”

“I’ve already got them!” Wang Erma pulled Old Zhou and Little Li close. “Old Zhou, Little Li, the three of us are a team—call it ‘Team Boss Ma’!”

“‘Team Boss Ma’?” Little Li’s eyes lit up, and he immediately pulled out a brush—the same one he used to annotate his poem—and wrote the name on the back of his hand. Pressing too hard, the ink seeped into his skin, leaving a blotchy black character for “Ma.”

Old Zhou nodded as well but kept patting Wang Erma’s pocket, as if checking the ticket was still there. “What’s Four-Flush like?” he whispered. “Is it like Landlord, three players?”

“Three players, nothing of the sort!” The King of Hell finally found his chance to boast, slapping the card table. “Four-Flush is played by four players! Four decks? No—” He scratched his head, then asked the Judge, “Judge, how many decks again for Four-Flush?”

The Judge rolled his eyes, pulled out a small notebook—not the one with the player count, but the one with rules—and flipped it open. “Four-Flush is a four-player game, four decks, 216 cards total, each player gets 54. Wait, 216 divided by 4 is 54? Oh right.” He closed the book. “The rules are way more complicated than Landlord: you need at least five cards for a straight, bombs have different sizes, plus there’s ‘bottom card deduction’ and ‘tribute’...”

“Stop!” Wang Erma waved his hand. “Don’t read anymore, or my head will explode. It’s just four decks and some guesswork. I get it.”

“What do you mean guesswork!” The Judge snapped. “Rules are important! Last time you used the little joker as a two—that’s against the rules—”

“Rules or not, winning counts!” Wang Erma cut him off, pulled out the sunflower seed the King of Hell had just returned, cracked it open, and popped it in his mouth. “Anyway, I won the championship and have the ticket. You can read your throat hoarse, it won’t change a thing.”

The Judge huffed, glaring furiously, but had no comeback—especially since during the finals he had miscounted cards and accidentally given Wang Erma three extra cards. To argue now would just highlight his own mistake. He stomped away, clutching his notebook. “Just you wait! Four-Flush rules are strict; your wild ways won’t work!”

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“Whether they work or not, we’ll find out by playing!” Wang Erma called after him, then turned to Old Zhou and Little Li with a smile. “Forget him; let’s study this ticket first—oh, when does the tournament start?”

“Early next month!” The King of Hell was still crouching, rubbing his ankle, voice muffled. “Half a month left—get practicing! If you lose, don’t say the ticket came from me!”

“Don’t worry!” Little Li pounded his chest. “Team Boss Ma will definitely win! I’m already composing a ‘Four-Flush Victory Poem’!” He sat down on the ground, pulling out his poem scroll, the pen scratching loudly on paper. “‘Four-Flush flags wave high, Boss Ma leads, cards strike loud...’”

Old Zhou said nothing, simply crouching to help Wang Erma pick up the torn corner of the ticket from the ground. He carefully tried to piece it back on, but the fragment was too small and stubbornly wouldn’t fit, making him sweat nervously.

Wang Erma took the ticket from his pocket and handed it over. “Stop trying to patch it; the words aren’t missing. You hold it—you’re more careful.”

Old Zhou’s eyes brightened as he accepted it, cradling the ticket like a treasure. He folded it neatly and slipped it into his innermost pocket—the one where he kept his Underworld currency, lined with clean straw paper. “I’ll keep it safe!” he patted the pocket. “It won’t get lost!”

“That’s right.” Wang Erma smiled and glanced toward Meng Po, who was handing out bowls of sweet soup to little imps. Each bowl floated a petal of red spider lily. A red-clad imp approached, holding his bowl, and asked, “Boss Wang, can I come watch your Four-Flush games? I’ll cheer for you!”

“Of course!” Wang Erma patted his head. “I’ll bring you some five-spice sunflower seeds then.”

“Yay!” The little imp jumped up, spilling soup everywhere but didn’t care, running off waving his bowl. “I’ll tell the others! We’ll all cheer for you!”

Meng Po watched him run off, smiling and shaking her head. “You old man, you sure know how to sweet-talk little imps.” She came over with an empty bowl. “Old Zhou didn’t drink the soup I gave him earlier—he was too busy staring at the ticket.”

“He’s like that.” Wang Erma glanced at Old Zhou, who was still crouched with his back turned, carefully examining the ticket as if counting the words. “Let him settle down before he drinks. By the way, Meng Po, do you know where we can get four decks of cards? We need to practice.”

“I have some!” Meng Po pointed toward the Naihe Bridge. “A few days ago, Little Black and Little White brought some new decks from the human world. They said it was to help the Queen of Hell pass time, but she didn’t like playing and left them in my soup shed. I’ll get them for you!”

“No!” Wang Erma quickly stopped her. “Don’t let the Queen of Hell know, or the King of Hell will get scolded again. We’ll figure it out ourselves.”

“Why be afraid?” Meng Po waved his hand away. “The Queen told me if you win Four-Flush, she’ll give you those decks. She said she’s glad to see the King of Hell throwing fits every day after losing to you.”

Wang Erma grinned. “That’s great! While you’re at it, ask if they can spare some sunflower seeds for practice.”

“No problem!” Meng Po turned to leave, then stopped and looked back. “Since Four-Flush uses so many cards and shuffling is hard, I’ll get you a wooden basin. You can shuffle in there so the cards won’t fall on the ground.”

“Perfect!” Wang Erma agreed and looked at Little Li, who was engrossed in writing, his poem sheets scattered around. Some had been blown near the Judge’s feet, who was picking up his pen, fuming as he saw a line calling him “full of rules like hair.”

“Little Li, stop writing!” Wang Erma called. “Focus on how to shuffle! Four decks—it’s not even clear how to shuffle them.”

Little Li looked up, puzzled. “Shuffle? Isn’t that just rubbing cards in your hands?” He grabbed a few cards from the floor, imitating Wang Erma, but the cards scattered everywhere.

“That’s just random rubbing.” Wang Erma walked over, picked up a card—a slightly curled Ace of Hearts. “In the human world, when shuffling multiple decks, you spread them on the table or shuffle face-to-face with someone else. Since we don’t have a table, we’ll use the wooden basin Meng Po mentioned. Put the cards inside and stir.”

“Stir?” Little Li blinked. “Like stirring Meng Po’s soup?”

“Something like that,” Wang Erma smiled. “As long as the cards get mixed up. Hey, Old Zhou, do you know how to shuffle?”

Old Zhou snapped back to reality, quickly pocketed the ticket, shaking his head. “I’ve seen others shuffle when I was alive, but I’ve never done it myself.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m afraid I’ll ruin the cards. If they get ruined, we can’t play.”

“You won’t ruin them!” Wang Erma patted his shoulder. “Cards are made of paper, not tofu. Worst case, we ask Meng Po for more.”

Just then, Meng Po returned with a wooden basin filled with four decks tied with a red string. “Here are the cards!” she said, placing the basin on the ground. “I usually use this for pickling vegetables, but it’s clean.”

Wang Erma untied the string and inspected the cards—brand new, backs embossed with gilded characters meaning “Prosperity and Good Fortune.” “These cards are nice!” He took a deck and laid it on the table. “Much better than the ones I played with in the human world.”

“Of course!” Meng Po beamed. “Little Black and Little White picked them out, saying they’re the best decks over there.” She poured some water into the basin. “Add a little water when shuffling—it helps prevent slipping.”

“No, no!” Wang Erma quickly poured out the water. “Wet cards get ruined easily. We’ll dry shuffle.” He dumped all four decks into the basin and tried to stir—too many cards to move at once. When he pushed harder, the cards spilled out, scattering across the ground.

“Ouch!” Old Zhou hurriedly crouched to collect them, stuffing them into his robe as if guarding treasure. Little Li helped gather cards too, pressing them down with his poem sheets to prevent the wind from blowing them away.

Meng Po laughed, bent over with amusement. “You two, is it really that serious? It’s just a few cards.”

“How could it not be!” Wang Erma also knelt to pick up cards. “This is Four-Flush’s deck! Losing even one card means no game.” He picked up a three of diamonds and dropped it back into the basin. “By the way, are there four jokers in four decks?”

“Exactly!” Meng Po crouched to help. “Four decks, four big jokers, four small jokers, and four of every suit card. When you play bombs, it’s four of a kind—more thrilling than Landlord!”

“Four of the same?” Old Zhou suddenly stopped, eyes wide. “Then there are even more bombs?”

“Yeah!” Wang Erma patted his back. “You can bomb whenever you want, no more holding back.”

Old Zhou’s face flushed scarlet; he bowed his head to continue picking up cards, but a small smile crept onto his lips.

Little Li, gathering cards, suddenly recited: “‘Four decks means many bombs, Old Zhou bombs happily’—Boss Ma, how’s that poem?”

“Better than the last one,” Wang Erma laughed. “When you finish, we’ll write it on the ticket to decorate it.”

“Okay!” Little Li agreed and picked up the pace.

By the time they collected all the cards back into the basin, the sun was nearing the horizon—the Underworld’s sun a dark red orb hanging at the end of the Naihe Bridge, tinting the clouds orange-red. The Judge had long finished his form and left. The King of Hell, helped by Little Black, had returned to his palace. Only the three of them remained with Meng Po and a few lingering imps.

“Why not stop practicing for today?” Meng Po glanced at the sky. “It’s dark; you won’t see the cards well and will make mistakes. Tomorrow, I’ll move the lights from the soup shed over here, and you can practice again.”

“Sounds good.” Wang Erma carefully re-tied the cards and handed them to Old Zhou. “You keep these safe, okay?”

Old Zhou took the cards like precious gold, clutching them tightly. “I’ll put them under my bed, weighted down with a brick. They won’t get lost.”

“Don’t press them with bricks; you’ll damage them,” Wang Erma warned. “Wrap them in a clean cloth.”

“Got it!” Old Zhou nodded and ran off to his small, humble hut behind the City God Temple—a tiny shack of grass and mud, mostly empty except for some Underworld currency.

Little Li gathered his poem sheets and stuffed them into his pocket. “Boss Ma, I’ll come wake you early tomorrow! We’ll practice early!”

“All right.” Wang Erma nodded and watched him run off, then smiled at Meng Po. “Do you think our ‘Team Boss Ma’ can win?”

“Why not?” Meng Po handed him a bowl of sweet soup. “You have your wild tactics, Old Zhou is meticulous, and Little Li can lighten the mood. The three of you together are stronger than the King of Hell’s team by far.” She paused, then added, “Besides, I’ll be your support—if you lose, I’ll make you sweet soup; if you win, I’ll cook sunflower seeds. You’ll have all the strength you need to play.”

Wang Erma took a sip—the soup was sweet, with the scent of osmanthus, sweeter than any syrup he’d drunk in the human world. He looked toward the Naihe Bridge where the dark red sun was slowly sinking; the spider lilies swayed in the breeze like a red wave.

“Four-Flush... four decks...” he murmured, touching the rough ticket in his pocket. It felt coarse but solid. “Even if it breaks my hands, I have to practice.”

Meng Po smiled at him. “Don’t worry; I’ll have Little Black and Little White help you shuffle. They’re young and quick.”

“That’s good news.” Wang Erma smiled and took another sip. “Oh, and don’t forget to bring sunflower seeds tomorrow. You need them to chew while playing, or you won’t think straight.”

“I won’t forget!” Meng Po patted her chest. “I still have two pounds of five-spice seeds, smuggled from the human world by Little Black. They’re saved for you.”

The sun finally disappeared below the horizon, and the Underworld sky darkened. The stars appeared, pale green like scattered jade chips on black cloth. Wang Erma sat by the card table, holding his bowl, looking toward Old Zhou’s hut. A small oil lamp glowed faintly inside, light spilling from the door crack—probably wrapping the cards in cloth.

“Boss Ma!” Little Li’s voice came from afar as he ran back, holding a poem scroll. “I finished the ‘Four-Flush Victory Poem!’ Listen: ‘Team Boss Ma charges ahead, Four-Flush arena shows its might, Old Zhou’s bombs explode loud, Little Li’s poems break the foe, Winning prizes with joy, and reincarnation keeps the cards!’”

Wang Erma laughed, patting his shoulder. “Great poem! Tomorrow we’ll write it on the ticket and win by its power!”

Little Li grinned, eyes squinting happily, carefully folding the poem and tucking it away.

The night breeze stirred the spider lily petals on the card table, drifting into the soup bowl and swirling gently. Wang Erma sipped the sweet soup, feeling warm inside.

Four-Flush, four decks—so what? With teammates, sunflower seeds, and sweet soup, even blind guesswork can win. Thinking this, he touched the entry pass in his pocket again, feeling a steady reassurance in his hand.