Chapter Six: The Beginner’s Landlord Tournament: Little Tricksters Hovering Over the Table

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Chapter 6, Volume 1 of “Underworld Card Game: From Fighting Landlord to Six Blast”: Newbie Fighting Landlord Tournament: Little Ghost Heads Hover Over the Table

When the sound of the iron megaphone held by the Underworld Judge pierced through the mist around the City God Temple, Wang Erma was crouching by the card table, watching Old Zhou carefully slip the deck of cards titled “Bombing Hell Wins the King of Hell” back into the card box. Besides the ghost coin at the bottom of the box, there was also a dried osmanthus petal—just slipped in by Lady Meng earlier, saying, “A touch of sweetness helps keep calm when bombing next time.”

“Newbie Tournament! Fighting Landlord Newbie Tournament! Participants gather at the City God Temple card arena!” The Judge’s voice cracked slightly, as if the megaphone was clogged by yin energy. “Top three winners receive Four Blast Entry Tickets! Latecomers disqualified!”

“Here we go!” Wang Erma slapped his thigh and stood up, grabbing Little Bai, who was squatting and drawing circles on the ground. “Stop fretting over your lousy intel. If I win, I’ll treat you to Lady Meng’s osmanthus cake!”

Little Bai’s hat flaps trembled as he looked up sharply. “Really? I want two pieces!”

“First, help me move the stool.” Wang Erma pointed to a wooden stool in the corner missing a leg—it had cracked during yesterday’s game with the King of Hell. Old Zhou had tied it with some straw rope, barely sturdy enough to sit on.

Old Zhou quickly tucked the card box into his coat, rubbing his hands on his lapel. He reached to steady the stool but suddenly remembered something, fishing out a sunflower seed from his pocket and popping it into his mouth—it was a small stash he’d won from the King of Hell earlier, kept in a worn cloth bag, and he often counted them one by one.

Lady Meng had already stacked her soup buckets on the cart, covered with a blue cloth. The corner of the cloth revealed half a bag of sunflower seeds. “I’m coming with you all. The soup stall will be right by the card arena. Losers get a sip of sweet soup; winners… winners get two extra spoonfuls of osmanthus!”

As the group headed toward the City God Temple, many ghosts were already drifting around. There were old ghosts in long gowns, clutching card boxes and rubbing their hands nervously; newly deceased little ghosts followed shyly, clutching newbie task cards. Little Bai, sharp-eyed, spotted a little ghost in a red jacket clutching a big joker. He approached quietly and asked, “Did you steal those cards?”

The red-jacketed ghost glared and Little Bai shrank back, “He glared at me!”

Wang Erma laughed. “Small kid, big ghost—better not provoke him.”

The card arena at the City God Temple was already set up. Five card tables lined up on the open ground before the main hall, their surfaces made from freshly pieced wooden planks, still dusted with wood shavings. Heavy stone blocks weighed down the table legs to prevent them from being blown away. At the front table, a banner fluttered, inscribed in cinnabar red with “Fighting Landlord Newbie Tournament,” wrapped with a ring of blazing red spider lilies.

Lady Meng parked her cart by the arena, set up a small table, and ladled sweet soup into clay bowls. Just as she was scooping the third bowl, a crowd of little ghosts swarmed around. “Sister Meng, I want the sweet one!” “No cilantro for me!”

“Line up properly!” Lady Meng tapped the rim of the bowl with her ladle. “Wait till after the match. Drink too early and your hands get weak—you won’t be able to hold your cards!”

The Judge stood beside the first card table, counting participants. His old-fashioned spectacles slid down to the tip of his nose. He pushed them up and looked down at the roster. “Wang Erma?”

“Here!” Wang Erma raised his hand.

“Old Zhou?”

Old Zhou quickly responded, unconsciously touching the card box in his coat.

“Xiao Li?”

“I’m here!” The tall, thin ghost wearing a blue cloth shirt squeezed through, holding a piece of paper with a crooked poem written on it. He was the scholarly ghost who memorized cards by reciting poetry during games of Fighting Landlord.

Wang Erma suddenly remembered Lady Meng mentioning him yesterday when forming their team. She said there was a scholarly ghost who used poetry to remember cards and suggested bringing him along to make up numbers. At the time, Wang Erma and Old Zhou were busy discussing how to bomb cards without producing black smoke, so he hadn’t paid much attention. Now, seeing Xiao Li’s refined manners, he found him reliable—at least more so than Little Bai.

“There are twenty-four players divided into eight groups. Best two out of three rounds wins. Winners proceed to the finals!” The Judge cleared his throat and began handing out number tokens. “Three players per group. Draw the same number to play at the same table!”

Wang Erma drew a “three,” Old Zhou also a “three,” and Xiao Li checked his token—also a “three.”

“What a coincidence!” Wang Erma laughed. “The three of us at one table. Let’s call ourselves ‘Team Master Ma’!”

Xiao Li hurried to join in: “I’ll make a poem for the team! ‘Master Ma leads the team to three straight wins, the newbie arena’s where I shine—’”

“Enough, enough. Win first, then talk.” Wang Erma patted his shoulder and headed to the third card table. Two players already sat opposite: the red-jacketed little ghost who had glared at Little Bai earlier, and a chubby ghost with a round belly clutching a greasy paper package, occasionally popping pieces of jerky into his mouth.

“I’m Fatty Dun.” The chubby ghost grinned, revealing two tiger-like teeth. “I was a pig butcher in life. I’m not afraid of bombs!”

The red-jacketed ghost snorted without speaking, pulled out a fresh deck of cards from his pocket, and slapped them down on the table—they still had their crisp edges unfrayed.

Wang Erma laughed. “Newbie, huh? These cards haven’t even been shuffled.”

The red-jacketed ghost’s face flushed. “Just won them! Exchanged with a task card!”

“I’ll shuffle.” Old Zhou quickly set the card box down on the corner of the table and reached for the cards. His shuffling was clumsy, his fingers stiff; the cards slipped and slid in his hands, almost dropping. Fatty Dun helped, quickly making the shuffle even. “Watch me!”

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The Judge ambled over and placed an hourglass on the table corner. “One round lasts the length of one incense stick. Over time, you lose!” He pushed up his glasses and glanced at the red-jacketed ghost’s cards. “Are the cards okay? Not stolen, right?”

The red-jacketed ghost grew anxious. “Who stole? I won all five rounds!”

“Alright, Judge, the kid’s good.” Wang Erma smoothed things over. “Let’s start. I can’t wait to win that ticket.”

In the first round, the red-jacketed ghost was the landlord. His face fell after the deal—mostly single cards, the highest an Ace. He clutched the cards and pressed his lips, eyes reddened as if about to cry.

Seeing this, Wang Erma thought of his grandson in the neighborhood who played cards. His heart softened. “It’s okay, play the small ones first. Your teammates have your back.”

The red-jacketed ghost said nothing and sluggishly played a 3.

Old Zhou quickly followed with a pair of 4s, his hands trembling, placing the cards gently on the table as if afraid to startle anyone.

Fatty Dun played a pair of 5s. Before long, the red-jacketed ghost had played most of his singles, left with an Ace and a 7. Hesitating, he tossed out the Ace; Wang Erma happened to hold a small joker and slapped it down with a “pop.” “Beat that!”

The red-jacketed ghost’s eyes brightened. He quickly played the 7 and won the round. He smiled faintly, glanced at Wang Erma, and silently pushed a pile of sunflower seeds toward him.

“Not bad.” Wang Erma picked a seed and popped it in his mouth. “Next round, I’m landlord.”

In the second round, Wang Erma got a good hand: four Kings and a straight. Just as he arranged his cards, Fatty Dun shoved a piece of greasy jerky into his mouth, his oily hand leaving a greasy smudge on the cards.

“Hey!” Wang Erma quickly pulled his cards back. “Don’t dirty the cards—won’t explode properly later.”

Fatty Dun chuckled. “No worries. My jerky’s fragrant. Cards smelling like this will make the ghosts that explode smell good too.”

No sooner had he spoken than Old Zhou slapped down four 2s. He had been sweating holding four 2s and, seeing Fatty Dun’s pair of 10s, bombed immediately without waiting for Wang Erma.

With a loud boom, black smoke billowed from the table, thicker than when they bombed the King of Hell last time. From the smoke emerged a phantom figure: skinny as a twig, big head small body, dark hollow eyes—the “Underworld bug” of the card game, a ghostly phantom spawned by a bomb.

The red-jacketed ghost squealed, dropping all his cards onto the floor and shrinking under the table, eyes fixed on the phantom.

Fatty Dun froze too, his jerky dropping to the floor as he instinctively dodged behind Wang Erma. “What the heck is that?”

The phantom hovered above the table, circled twice, seemingly confused, glancing this way and that, before floating toward the red-jacketed ghost’s scattered cards as if to pick them up.

“Don’t be scared.” Wang Erma picked up the fallen cards and handed them back, then reached out to pat the phantom’s head—it was cold, like touching a block of ice. “This thing’s no meaner than Old Zhang in my neighborhood.”

Old Zhang was the grumpy old man guarding the parking shed, always fighting for territory while playing cards. When he lost, he’d glare fiercely. Last time, after Wang Erma beat him twice, Old Zhang chased him cursing half the street.

The red-jacketed ghost remained still, eyes locked on the phantom. Old Zhou’s face had turned pale; his hands trembled clutching the card box but he still remembered to pick up the dropped sunflower seeds and handed them back to Wang Erma.

The phantom, touched by Wang Erma, seemed to switch on. It wobbled, let out a squeak, shrank to a tiny black dot, and vanished.

“Gone?” Fatty Dun peeked out, picked up his jerky, wiped it, and popped it back in his mouth. “That thing’s not easily scared.”

“This is normal in the Underworld card game.” Lady Meng appeared holding a bowl of sweet soup and handed it to the red-jacketed ghost. “Drink some sweetness, don’t be afraid. The phantom is just condensed yin energy in the cards. It has no ill will but loves to join the fun.”

The red-jacketed ghost took the bowl, sipped daintily, and looked up at Wang Erma. “You’re not scared?”

“Why would I be?” Wang Erma grinned. “What haven’t I seen in this life? Last time playing cards in the neighborhood, Old Zhang got so mad he threw a slipper at me. That was ten times meaner than this phantom.”

The Judge happened to stroll over, frowned at the cards on the floor, and said, “What happened? Dropping cards costs three points!”

“Judge, the bomb just spawned a phantom and scared the kid.” Lady Meng hurried to explain.

The Judge pushed up his glasses, glanced at the table, and said, “Oh, the phantom is a normal reaction to bombs.” He pulled out a small booklet and flipped to a page. “Rule 7: Bomb spawning phantom does not affect the game. Cards dropped must be picked up by the player. Penalty? Penalty! Dropped cards mean point deduction!”

Wang Erma quickly gathered the red-jacketed ghost’s cards and tidied them. “Penalty or not, we’ll win it back.”

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In the third round, Fatty Dun was landlord but had bad luck—he got mostly single cards. As soon as he played a 5, the red-jacketed ghost countered with a pair of 6s. Soon, Fatty Dun was left with a big joker, scratching his head in frustration. “What’s wrong with my cards? Stubborn as the pigs I used to butcher!”

Wang Erma eyed the big joker in his hand and suddenly shouted, “Old Zhou, bomb!”

Old Zhou was momentarily stunned, instinctively touching the card box in his coat, then remembered the cards in his hand. He quickly threw down four 3s.

With a booming blast, black smoke rose again, this time spawning two phantoms smaller than the previous one. They circled the table twice, spotted Lady Meng’s ladle, and zipped right into it.

Lady Meng exclaimed, shaking the ladle. “These little fellows sure love sweet soup.”

Fatty Dun took advantage of the distraction to play his big joker. “Won!”

“Doesn’t count!” Wang Erma glared. “You won by sneaking in!”

The Judge took notes without looking up. “Counts! The game ends when all cards are out, phantoms don’t matter.” He jabbed his pen on the book. “‘Team Master Ma’ wins two out of three, advancing to the finals!”

Old Zhou sighed with relief, reached into his coat, and pulled out a sunflower seed. He handed it to the red-jacketed ghost. “Here.”

The red-jacketed ghost peeled it and handed it back. “You eat.”

As they walked toward the finals table, Little Bai leaned in, whispering mysteriously, “Master Wang, I just saw that red-jacketed ghost stuff something into his card box. Maybe he’s cheating!”

Wang Erma ignored him, but Old Zhou whispered, “There’s candy in his card box. Lady Meng gave it to him earlier. He just didn’t dare eat it.”

The final was at the front table. Their opponents were an old ghost in a long gown and two little ghosts. The old ghost played slowly, examining every card for a long time, as if afraid the cards might have thorns. When Wang Erma was landlord, the old ghost held a bomb but didn’t play it. After Wang Erma laid down his last card, the old ghost tossed out the bomb. “Oops, forgot to play it!”

The surrounding ghosts burst into laughter.

In the decisive third round, Wang Erma was left with a 3, and the old ghost held a 2. Old Zhou clutched four 10s, palms sweating, glancing between Wang Erma and the table—earlier, Xiao Li had played a straight that spawned a phantom still gnawing on a sunflower seed by the table corner.

“Bomb!” Wang Erma whispered.

Old Zhou took a deep breath and laid down the four 10s.

With a thunderous boom, black smoke rose again, this time spawning three phantoms of average size. They lined up and floated toward Lady Meng’s soup bucket as if going to dinner.

The red-jacketed ghost had somehow squeezed to the table’s side, standing on tiptoe to cheer, “Great bomb!”

The old ghost was so startled by the phantoms he dropped his 2. Wang Erma quickly played his 3. “Won!”

The Judge came over, patted Wang Erma on the shoulder, his glasses sliding down his nose with no time to push them up. “Well done, old man. This unorthodox method… effective!” He pulled a red paper from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Four Blast Entry Ticket, printed with spider lily paper. Keep it safe.”

Wang Erma took the ticket—soft paper with a faint fragrance, decorated with playing cards, four Aces lined up. He glanced at it and passed it to Old Zhou. “You hold it for now.”

Old Zhou quickly waved him off. “You keep it; you’re the team leader.”

Lady Meng brought over bowls of sweet soup and handed each a spoonful of sunflower seeds. “Try them all, soak in some good luck!”

Little Bai squeezed through and reached out. “Where’s my osmanthus cake?”

“Can’t forget yours.” Wang Erma smiled and headed toward Lady Meng’s cart. “Come on, let’s eat cake!”

Old Zhou followed behind, the card box pressing uncomfortably against him, but he didn’t mind. His steps were light, occasionally pulling out a sunflower seed to pop into his mouth—he had picked up two seeds dropped during the bomb earlier, cleaned them, and they tasted sweeter than usual.

By the card table, the three phantoms still lingered near the soup bucket. Lady Meng ladled some sweet soup and offered it. The phantoms leaned in to lick it, then with a squeak dissolved into three wisps of smoke that drifted into the soup bucket.