Chapter 13
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: Encounter - 2
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Where should I even begin? The more I think about it, the more it feels like everything that happened that day existed solely for me to meet her.
The word "fate" holds a strange power. Rolling it around in my mouth makes something you can't touch or see feel alive, as if it truly exists.
Fate.
Strictly speaking, it probably starts from the night before, when I tossed and turned in restless sleep. The wind was fiercer than usual, drafts seeping in and waking me several times, leaving me shivering.
Or maybe it was because the crickets I bet on that day kept dying so easily. They failed more often and more spectacularly than usual, as if the immortals lounging above the clouds were toying with me.
If not that, then it must have been the World Dragon's mockery. He tormented me with particular viciousness. Take that afternoon, for instance.
"Hey, Divine Sword Hits Ground. Your face looks like death today. What's eating you?"
Divine Sword Hits Ground. The nickname that clung to me like a scab at fifteen turned the jeer about my sword rolling on the ground into something all too believable.
A casual arm slung over my shoulder.
He links arms with me like we're childhood pals. The stench of booze and cheap perfume from his romp with a courtesan the night before clouds my mind. I struggle to stay sharp.
"Nothing."
"Nothing my ass. What snag can't the boy who flips the earth with his Divine Sword Hits Ground handle? Let me sort it out for you."
What does my face look like? I force the corners of my mouth up, refusing to grimace. Clenching and unclenching my fist, I grasp at my fading focus. Then comes a faint burst of laughter.
To the World Dragon's friends, it must have looked like I'd taken a hit. He shouts triumphantly. Right on! Clink—someone else chimes glasses.
I stand there in the middle, dazed.
Loud shouts and raucous singing. The clatter of cricket wings and the wails of bettors. The cricket den was a cacophony of noise. To clear my head, I had to focus.
I force out the words.
"Nothing. Just didn't sleep well last night."
"Slept poorly? Don't tell me you went too wild with the beauties. You cleaned up last night too!"
"I bought rice, and it all vanished."
"Ha! Knew it. Let's throw down again today. Who knows? If the gods bless you, you might snag fifty coppers."
Coppers clatter across the table, his cricket pitted against mine. A fight with a foregone conclusion. His was bred by Black Dragon Sect experts pouring their blood, sweat, and tears into it; mine was a field-caught scrub. It was twice the size from the start. I laughed.
Losing, losing again, and losing still. Laughing through the losses. Alive, yet not truly living.
Why am I like this? That's when I clutch my coin pouch with all my might. The weight of those fifty coppers props me up.
My fallen family's home, my blurring mind—they drag me back to that memory from age fourteen. I shouldn't have knocked down the World Dragon that day. I should have been wiser.
I shake my head. No time for sentiment.
To snap out of it, I bring the liquor to my lips. A glance at the World Dragon's full cup assaults me with sweet booze fumes. My cricket had just died again, and as I fumble at my belt...
I realize the money he'd "generously tossed" me was gone.
Par for the course. A nasty prank.
"Brother Tian."
"Eh? Brother Bai, what's up? Out of stakes? Want a loan?"
"No. Need to hit the outhouse for a bit."
"Don't run off!"
I sigh and head out of the cricket den. Roars of laughter erupt. Shouts warning me not to flee pummel my ears.
It was a warning. Mockery. Don't run.
Come back even if you have to borrow—even if it means debt.
I had to return, even if on borrowed coin.
The pouch felt lighter than the usual stakes, nagging at me. No doubt the World Dragon wanted me heading to the pawnshop today once I ran dry.
Debt.
Debt was like my Achilles' heel.
A thousand taels sprouting from the incident at fourteen. The debt my father left carries thirty coppers interest weekly. Plowing field after field wouldn't pay it off, so even today, I had to borrow from the pawnshop run by the World Dragon's friend...
That was how I ended up in that back alley.
How did she end up meeting me? Drifters who are starving and exhausted are sharp by nature. You can't survive without hearing the whispers on the wind.
They'd sooner beg scraps than venture into Jiangming's underbelly, where the desperate scraps with nothing to lose scrap like dogs. Life in the unorthodox paths is merciless to vagrants.
So why was she there, at that exact time and place?
I still don't know, and I probably never will. She wasn't one for words. She skimped on talk of her past. But she was there at that far too coincidental moment, that precise hour.
Like fate.
When I entered the pawnshop, the girl was mid-conversation with the owner. Her familiar garb, her familiar voice. A voice that pierced not the ear, but the heart, uttering the absurd.
"You owe me a debt."
"A debt?"
"Just as you saddled the Jang Clan woodcutters by the well with debt, today you owe me five hundred taels."
"Hey, girlie. You don't know the score. Five hundred taels is a steep price for back-alley trash kin. Don't know what tie you have to those brats, but this ain't outsider business."
Flying Pig Yang Zhanhou snorts from his seat beyond.
A sudden five hundred taels in debt. To Flying Pig, no less—five hundred taels. No one mans a dark street pawnshop in Jiangming lightly.
You need a solid moniker to protect yourself, and shrewd street smarts to juggle the delicate balance between Black Dragon Sect and Tian Clan. Flying Pig had both. And she demands five hundred taels from him outright.
"Yeah. Doesn't matter. Flying Pig Yang Zhanhou, your life is worth five hundred taels. Pay me back. Or you'll die today."
I freeze. Is she insane? Should I bolt?
Flying Pig doesn't fly off the handle easily. He doesn't decide on kills lightly. Not because he values life, but because he knows the weight of the cleanup.
I could have slipped away. Chalk it up to some clueless girl babbling, beat her senseless, and call it done. Odds were good.
But deep down, I knew. I'd seen it.
There's an eerie power in the girl's voice that turns even nonsense into truth. Lock eyes while she whispers, and anyone would believe it.
"Is that so?"
Flying Pig's eyes gleam. The look of a man making a snap decision.
Jiangming. A backwater village in Guangdong, no place for ambitions to shine.
Yet that's why the line between righteous and unorthodox blurs like morning sea mist for the ambitious. Tian Clan curses Black Dragon Sect to their faces but shares drinks behind closed doors.
I'd witnessed how those "young masters" played their games in the cricket den.
Where the higher-ups' eyes don't reach, the powerful can do anything.
I saw it. Flying Pig pulling out a small bell etched with a skull and ringing it. I heard the frantic footsteps rushing in. My senses have always been keen since childhood. Too keen—a curse, really. But right now, I might be grateful for it.
I turn to leave. Thud. Too late. Pawnshops keep muscle for rowdy customers. And for "handling" emergencies.
Thud. A brute twice my size blocks me.
Too late.
"Well, if it isn't Bai scum."
"I-I've got nothing to do with this. I won't breathe a word of what happens here."
"Two hits, and you're free."
What a rotten luck day. Could I survive two pot-lid fists to the head?
One thing's sure: no more talking after. Stammering, I grasp at the most pathetic lifeline.
"I'm friends with the Tian Clan young master..."
"That bitch pissed me off. Send her packing as is, and where's my face? Heh heh... Divine Sword Hits Ground, chalk it up to bad luck today. Always been unlucky, right? I'll put in a good word with my young master."
The reply comes from behind. Naturally, from Flying Pig. Tacit approval. Snap. The rotten lifeline breaks.
I glance back. What bolt from the blue is this?
The girl shows no reaction, like she's lost her mind. Her sunken eyes are unreadable. She gazes at me calm and still as a lake on a clear day.
I turn to the brute. His solid frame, thick arms, and ugly grin meet my eyes.
"What're you staring at? Eyes down, you shit."
Bile rises. Something hot surges, then I think of Mother waiting at home. The brief calculation stings.
I squeeze my eyes shut. My throat burns.
"Sorry."
Yeah. Just take it...
Since fourteen, my biggest regret was fighting. I don't fight. I swore never to repeat that mistake, even if I had to crawl between legs. Even if my chest burned hot, even if pain kept me sleepless—I vowed to endure.
Humiliation that I'd borne for eight years since crushes my back. Once more, I choose the wise surrender.
"Retard."
Contempt drips from one word. Taking hits just to vent his rage. Despair at facing the World Dragon again after. The torment of wondering if even meeting the girl was orchestrated...
Whoosh, whoosh. And then. Thoughts scatter.
"Gah!"
Thud. Fist to the solar plexus. Breath catches. Eyes fly open, locking on the brute's neck. Veins bulge on the thick column.
My waist buckles. Can't breathe—gagging. I crumple to the floor. Then his knee comes into view. Ankle. And between the worn shoe, the pain point on his toe.
He catches my gaze. I gape like I'm screaming. Hold it in.
The merciless fists rain down.
I barely shield my back. Rolling pitifully, I expose my chest instead. My upper chest throbs from the blows. A few ribs probably cracked.
"Oh? Blocking?"
"I took... urk. I took it. Let me go now. I swear I won't say a word about this."
"What a pathetic fuck. Get lost."
The brute steps aside. No strength to stand—I crawl. Gotta escape. Flee... but where?
Back to the cricket den?
Flee here, then flee to the den again. Back to the World Dragon. Pathetic. Miserable. The familiarity torments me more.
That was when the girl whispered.
"Why did you hold back?"
Softly, as if she knew it all.