Chapter Twenty-Six: Old Zhou’s Misguided Blast: He Blew Up His Teammate’s Cards

**Underworld Card Games: From Landlord to Six-Strike, Volume 2, Chapter 26: Old Zhou’s Misguided Blast: Bombing His Own Teammate**

When the stone table at the City God Temple settled back onto the ground, its legs sank half an inch into the mud. Old Zhou carefully picked up the apricot petals that had stuck to the table and wrapped them in the corner of his blue cloth bag. He hadn't lost any cards when the table floated yesterday, but he had gained these few blossoms. He considered them an “omen of victory” and would reach into his pocket to touch them from time to time.

“Today, we focus on practicing sequences and bombs,” Wang Er-ma said, gathering the four decks of cards. The stack was still damp with Meng Po’s soup, spilled when she reached out to catch the cards yesterday as the table drifted. “Old Zhou, stop hugging those four tens. If it’s time to blast, you blast. We’re practicing ‘teamwork,’ not ‘hoarding.’”

Old Zhou pressed a hand to his chest where the blue bag bulged—it held the very bomb of four tens. He hunched his shoulders and muttered, “I—I remember. But what if I blast too early?”

“There are no ‘what-ifs’!” Wang Er-ma clapped him on the shoulder with a heavy hand, sending Old Zhou sliding against the stone stool. “If you’d blasted earlier when Old Zhao played his sequence yesterday, the table wouldn’t have floated up to the rafters. Today, Little Li keeps track, I command, and you blast when I say so. If you get it wrong, it’s on me.”

Little Li squatted by the stone table, a sheet of yellow paper spread across his knees. On it, in crooked handwriting, was the “Sequence Code Poem”: “When Master Ma says ‘String,’ it’s a sequence; when you hear ‘Blast,’ you play. If you forget what to do, don’t panic—wait for me to recite three lines.” He bobbed his head as he read, the corner of the paper curling up in the breeze and picking up a smear of mud from the table.

Meng Po approached with a new soup bowl. It held no soup, only a layer of dried osmanthus—for “calming the nerves,” she claimed, fearing Old Zhou’s hands would shake when he played his bombs. “I just saw the Judge heading this way,” she said, setting the bowl by Old Zhou’s hand. “He’s surely coming to inspect your training. Don’t get caught making mistakes, or you’ll be punished by copying the rules again.”

No sooner had she spoken than the Judge turned into the courtyard, his cloth bag slung over his shoulder. An abacus hung from the bag, its beads rattling with every step. He walked to the stone table and bent down to inspect the legs. “Did the table crack when it floated yesterday? This table is made of bluestone from three hundred years ago. If it breaks, you lot can’t afford the damages.”

“What damages? Once we win the tournament, we’ll make King Yama buy you a gold one,” Wang Er-ma said, tossing out the cards. Four decks spread across the table, a sea of red and black. “Judge, you’ve come at the right time. Be our opponent and practice a few rounds with us.”

The Judge pulled a pair of reading glasses from his bag, then produced a small notebook with “Records of Six-Strike Errors” written on the cover. “I’ll be your opponent,” he said, sitting on the stool opposite Old Zhou, which let out a creak. “But we follow the rules: sequences must be at least five cards long, bombs must be played according to rank, and if you're too slow, you’ll be penalized…”

“We know, we know—peeling melon seeds,” Wang Er-ma said, pushing the dealt cards toward Old Zhou. “Hurry up and take your hand. Don’t listen to his nagging.”

Old Zhou clutched his cards to his chest, counting them with his fingertips. His eyes lit up—along with the four tens, he had three eights, enough to make a pair. Just as he went to organize his hand, Wang Er-ma caught his eye and tilted his chin toward Little Li. Little Li caught the signal, cleared his throat, and recited: “Red eight meets black eight, a pair to take the lead; if the opponent dares to play, we shall…”

“Stop reciting and play!” the Judge snapped, tapping the stone table. His own cards were laid out as straight as if measured by a ruler. “My turn: three fives with a two.”

Wang Er-ma glanced at his hand and played three sixes with a three. “Covered.”

The Judge had no cards to beat it and yielded the lead to Wang Er-ma. Wang looked at his cards, then at Little Li, who was tracing “5-9” on the yellow paper to remind him of his sequence. Wang cleared his throat and laid five cards on the table: “Five through nine, a candied hawthorn skewer!”

No sooner had the cards hit the table than Old Zhou whipped the blue bag from his chest. With a loud clatter, he dumped his cards out, grabbed the four tens, and slammed them onto the table. “Blast!”

*Thwack!* The four tens landed on the stone table, the force sending Little Li’s yellow paper flying into the soup bowl, where it was dusted with osmanthus. The entire courtyard went silent; even the Judge stopped writing in his notebook.

Wang Er-ma stared at Old Zhou. “Who are you bombing?”

Old Zhou’s hand remained frozen in mid-air. He blinked, looked at Wang Er-ma’s “5-9” sequence, then at the Judge, who was stroking his chin with a smirk. Old Zhou suddenly snatched the cards back, shoved them into his bag, and hunched his shoulders. “I—I misread it… I thought it was the Judge who played…”

“I played three fives!” The Judge laughed so hard his notebook wobbled. “You just bombed your own teammate’s sequence! The Six-Strike rules are clear: you cannot bomb a teammate’s cards. The penalty is…”

“Forget the penalty!” Wang Er-ma interrupted. He grabbed the blue bag, dumped out the four tens, and threw them on the table. “What’s wrong with you? Why bomb my sequence? Did floating yesterday scramble your brains?”

Old Zhou’s face turned crimson as he twisted the corner of his tunic. “You shouted ‘candied hawthorn skewer,’ and it sounded like ‘time to blast.’ Then I saw Little Li reciting…” He turned to look at Little Li. “Didn’t you say, ‘If the opponent dares to play, we shall blast’?”

Little Li, busy picking osmanthus petals off his yellow paper, scratched his head. “I hadn’t gotten to ‘blast’ yet. I was going to say ‘we shall cover it’…”

Meng Po hurriedly shoved a handful of melon seeds into Old Zhou’s hand. “Don’t panic, don’t panic. It’s just practice; consider it a lesson.” She handed a bowl of water to Wang Er-ma. “Don’t be angry. At least Old Zhou has the courage to blast now—that’s better than clutching them until the end.”

The Judge scribbled in his notebook, the pen scratching loudly. “Bombing a teammate is an ‘invalid move.’ According to the rules, the penalty is…”

“What penalty?” Old Zhou looked up, his face even redder. “I—I’m out of underworld currency. All my chips are already in storage.”

“The penalty is you give those four tens to me as ‘teaching props.’” Wang Er-ma pulled the cards toward himself and pushed the rest back to Old Zhou. “Let’s go again. This time, listen carefully: only blast when I say ‘Blast.’ If I don’t say it, keep your precious bomb tucked away. Don’t treat it like a ticking time bomb.”

Old Zhou nodded and tucked his cards back into his chest, though this time he didn’t dare touch the blue bag. As the Judge redealt, Old Zhou stared at his hand so intensely his fingertips nearly wrinkled the cards.

At the start of the second round, the Judge played a bomb of four sevens. The stone table shuddered—it didn't float, but it shook several apricot petals down from the courtyard wall. Just as Wang Er-ma was drawing a card, Old Zhou suddenly shouted, “I have it! I have a bigger one!”

He sprang to his feet, reached into his chest, pulled out four jacks, and slapped them onto the table. “Blast! This one covers it!”

Wang Er-ma was about to praise him when the Judge raised an eyebrow. “That was four sevens. Your four jacks do indeed beat them—but I wasn’t finished playing yet. What’s the rush?”

Old Zhou’s hand froze again. He looked at the Judge’s cards, then at Wang Er-ma, his face draining from red to white. “I—I thought you were finished…” his voice trailed off, barely audible.

Little Li burst into a giggle and immediately began composing a rhyme: “Old Zhou’s blasts are quick and bold, neither friend nor foe can hold; once a bomb is in his hand, he slams it down upon the land.”

Meng Po laughed until she had to clutch her stomach, spilling the osmanthus from her bowl. “Is Old Zhou addicted to bombing? A moment ago he was scared, and now he’s a ‘bombing maniac.’”

Even Wang Er-ma couldn't help but laugh. He patted Old Zhou on the back. “Fine, having the courage to blast is good. Just look properly next time—don’t play a bomb when the Judge plays a three, or our team’s chips will be blown to nothing by you.”

Old Zhou took back his four jacks. He moved slowly as he shoved them into his blue bag, stealing a glance at Wang Er-ma. Seeing that he wasn't truly angry, he breathed a sigh of relief. The Judge finished his last entry and closed the notebook. “Three errors recorded today. The penalty for the three of you—Wang Er-ma, Old Zhou, and Little Li—is to copy the ‘Six-Strike Bombing Rules’ in full tomorrow.”

“Copy it then,” Wang Er-ma said, sweeping the cards into a pile. “But Old Zhou has to copy it twice, since he bombed me twice.”

Old Zhou nodded eagerly. “I’ll do it! I’ll copy it three times if I have to!” As long as he wasn't losing chips, copying rules was nothing. He secretly touched the apricot petals in his pocket, feeling that the “omen” hadn't lied. At least he now had the courage to slam his bombs onto the table, even if he did it wrong.

Little Li was busy stuffing his osmanthus-stained paper into his clothes and began to recite: “Old Zhou may err when he lets it fly, but at least he’s ready to reach for the sky; practice today and practice tomorrow, he’ll be the ‘Bombing King’ to everyone’s sorrow!”

Old Zhou actually smiled to himself, and his hands stopped shaking. Meng Po stood up with her bowl. “Training is about done. I’ll go brew a pot of sweet soup to clear your heads—Old Zhou, you drink two bowls, so you don’t mistake your teammates for opponents next time.”

The Judge packed his bag, the abacus beads rattling. “If you don’t finish copying the rules tomorrow, I’ll make you wax the stone table—and scrub off all the mud from when it floated yesterday.”

Wang Er-ma ignored him, focused on arranging the cards for Old Zhou. “Look at this hand. You have to wait for the opponent to play something big before you blast. It’s like saving your underworld currency; you only spend it when it’s worth it…”

Old Zhou leaned in, listening intently. When he nodded, a petal fell from his pocket onto the cards—red petals against black cards, far more colorful than any gaming table in the world of the living. As the wind blew outside the courtyard wall, the Judge’s abacus rattled again, Little Li’s poem drifted into the air, and the sweet scent of Meng Po’s soup lingered, more memorable than any win or loss.