As far as official jails went, Li Chi was no stranger to them.

This was not the first time he had been locked in a place like this, but somehow every single time, he never seemed to actually be there to serve a sentence.

While listening to the drumming, Li Chi was also turning over another problem in his mind.

The jails in every city seemed cast from the same mold—the layout barely varied. A single corridor, cells on either side, growing more fortified the deeper you went, the deeper placement indicating the greater importance of the prisoner within.

Following the corridor outward, there would inevitably be a bend.

Li Chi’s cell was not far from that bend—but of course he couldn’t see what lay around the corner.

Couldn’t see it. Could guess at it.

Li Chi guessed that at that bend, with eighty percent certainty, sat that mischief-loving young lord, Cao Lie.

In Li Chi’s estimation, this young lord’s methods were thoroughly unremarkable—no different from children playing house.

Whatever tricks the young lord could devise were nothing compared to someone like Li Chi, who had been walking the jianghu since he was small.

Over the years in the jianghu, what Li Chi had seen and experienced was more than most people would encounter in an entire lifetime.

Sending men to bang drums just to keep Li Chi awake—it was genuinely a bit juvenile.

For someone like Li Chi, three days and three nights without sleep was nothing. And if he was truly exhausted, no amount of banging and drumming could stop him from sleeping through it.

But since the other party wanted to play, Li Chi was content to play along.

He sat cross-legged on the jail floor. As the night wore on toward its latter half, the cold crept in—cold floor, cold backside.

Indeed, as many had verified over the ages, sitting on a very cold floor for an extended period tended to cause one’s stomach to grow unsettled.

The initial symptom of this unsettlement was… a great deal of flatulence.

And so Li Chi stood up, turned around, backed himself toward the corridor-facing side, and shuffled to the cell door. He poked his rear end out between the bars and released a prolonged volley of farts.

Then he gave a satisfied hum.

The drummer outside, entirely baffled by Li Chi’s sequence of movements, had let the drum go silent without even noticing.

Li Chi turned to look at him. “Keep going.”

The drummer felt utterly aggrieved. He looked at his companions. “I’m tired. One of you two take over for a bit.”

The two looked at each other. Neither of them was a professional drummer—if anything, that made them better candidates by some perverse logic.

They didn’t know any drum pieces. Even if Li Chi wanted to teach them, there was nothing to teach.

“Wait.”

Li Chi suddenly called out. All three of them thought: *he’s finally had enough.* As long as Li Chi was sick of it, their mission would be considered accomplished.

But they had underestimated Li Chi.

Whether or not an ancient fox spirit inhabited his head was uncertain, but a small devil certainly lived there alongside a small angel.

Li Chi came to the door and bent two of the vertical iron bars apart to widen the gap, then stuck his head through.

“Just hammering away like this is boring,” Li Chi said with a grin. “How about we make a little wager?”

All three shook their heads simultaneously.

“We’re only here to drum,” the drummer said. “We can’t do anything else.”

“Don’t worry,” Li Chi said. “Something simple. One person drums, the other two count. We see whether the left hand strikes more times or the right hand strikes more times.”

He was like a small devil, coaxing people into mischief with a gentle, amiable tone.

“I’ll place my bet,” Li Chi continued, “written on the ground here, and then I’ll call stop when I’m ready. I write my guess first, then cover it so you can’t see. When you stop, if I’m right, you pay me. If I’m wrong, I pay you.”

“This way, you have control of the outcome. After all, how many times each hand strikes—which hand you choose to favor—is entirely up to you.”

The drummer, after hearing Li Chi out, asked: “You gave us all your silver already. What do you have to wager with?”

Li Chi pulled open his outer robe. Around his waist was a deer-hide pouch. He reached in like a conjurer and produced a handful of gold leaves.

He held one up and gave it a little wave. “This one gold leaf is worth a few hundred taels. I’ll take a loss—you each stake ten taels, and I stake one gold leaf.”

When they saw the gold, their eyes lit up.

Every person who looked upon gold gets the same expression—identical, surely, to that of a dragon eyeing a hoard.

For a stake of only ten taels, they could win a gold leaf worth several hundred. That kind of temptation was near impossible to resist.

Even if they lost most rounds, winning just once would put them well ahead. Winning twice would change their lives.

The three huddled together to confer. Between them they had just over eighty taels—enough for at least eight rounds.

Even if they lost seven rounds and won one, they’d be ahead.

“We’re in!”

The drummer bit down and nodded. “I refuse to believe you can win every single time.”

“Think carefully,” Li Chi said. “Gambling is a pit. I’m digging it for you right now. If you end up losing every coin you have, won’t you feel wronged?”

“If we lose everything,” the drummer said, “it was all your silver to begin with.”

Li Chi smiled. “That’s fair enough, I suppose. Whether it’s your silver or my silver—it’s all my silver in the end.”

Had the drummer caught the meaning behind those words, he would have been wise to stop right there. He didn’t.

“But you can’t call stop the moment I start, or after only a few beats,” the drummer said. “If you do that, obviously your odds are better.”

“Here’s what I’ll do,” Li Chi said. “I count to a hundred before I write it down, then I count another hundred before I can call stop.”

The three conferred and agreed—that seemed fair enough.

With stakes this high, the drummer no longer mentioned being tired. He picked up his mallets again.

His two companions stood on either side, each counting only one hand.

Li Chi settled himself against the bars, smiling pleasantly. “Ready… begin!”

At his word, the drummer launched in.

To confound Li Chi’s judgment, he played deliberately, varying the tempo and rhythm—sometimes striking with the left hand three or four times in a row, sometimes six or seven with the right.

Li Chi stopped watching. He closed his eyes and listened, his lips moving faintly as he counted.

He counted to a hundred, turned and wrote a character behind his back, then counted another hundred.

At a hundred he called stop. The drummer reacted instantly.

The two counters called out their tallies—left, then right. Li Chi moved aside so they could see what he had written.

Li Chi had won.

Around the bend in the corridor, young lord Cao Lie was now deeply curious.

*With this wager,* he thought, *Li Chi shouldn’t be able to win consistently.*

Just as the drummer had reasoned: even if Li Chi won seven rounds, the drummer’s men only needed to win once to come out ahead.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he could no longer stay hidden. He poked his head around to watch.

He saw the three men’s faces fall as they counted out ten taels to Li Chi. *Just bad luck,* Cao Lie thought.

The second round began, with the same rules. The time came—stop was called—and Li Chi had won again.

At this, Cao Lie told himself that this Li Duidui really did have exceptional luck.

What he hadn’t anticipated was that Li Chi won seven rounds in a row. The three men had only enough left for one more bet.

One of them tugged the drummer’s sleeve, expression sour. “Maybe we should stop. If we stop now, at least we have a little left.”

“If we keep going and lose again,” the other agreed, “what was the point of any of this—just entertaining him for free?”

The drummer hesitated, suddenly uncertain.

It was one thing to say *stop*—but after losing seventy taels, it didn’t feel right.

And yet the reality was staring back at them: they had lost seven rounds in a row. What confidence could they possibly have left?

And right at that moment, Li Chi pushed the seventy taels of silver forward. “Last round, then. Here’s what I’ll do—if you win this time, not only do you keep the gold leaf, I’ll give you back this seventy taels as well.”

At this, the drummer’s eyes took on a reddish tinge.

“Let’s do it!” He turned to the others. “If we win, we make a windfall. If we lose, we only had these last ten-odd taels left anyway—whether we keep them or not doesn’t make much difference.”

The other two, swayed by Li Chi’s offer, began to waver as well. All three put their heads together, muttering. In the end, impulse overcame reason.

But impulse might overpower reason. It could not overpower Li Chi.

Round eight. They lost again.

Their last ten taels went to Li Chi. All they had left was a small scatter of broken silver—perhaps two or three taels combined.

And somehow, even now, the thought arose: *split those two or three taels among the three of us—it’s… still better than nothing.*

But Li Chi was a scoundrel. A stingy scoundrel, who would not willingly let a single tael leave his hands.

Still wearing that gentle, benevolent expression, he said: “How about this—use those few taels you have left, one tael a round. If you win even once, I’ll give you everything I’ve won, plus a gold leaf.”

At this, the three decided: after losing eighty taels, what was three more?

*With eighty taels gone, what’s the point of holding onto three?*

And so it is that people are led step by step into the trap. Those who frequent gambling dens are stripped bare the same way, one small step at a time.

Li Chi’s words were like a devil’s whisper. The three men had stopped thinking about anything else—only the dream of one great reversal. Not just breaking even. Getting rich.

Watching the feverish look on their faces, Li Chi simply said: “You’ve got about three taels left. Stake it all on one round. I’ll pay three times over if you win—three gold leaves and two hundred and forty taels of silver.”

Three times three gold leaves. At least three gold leaves, and two hundred and forty taels.

“We’re in!”

The drummer’s eyes were no longer slightly red. They were entirely red.

The outcome was foregone. These men had no chance against a creature like Li Chi.

As Yu Jiuling would say: that head of his housed an old fox spirit of a thousand years’ cultivation.

They lost again.

The last scattered fragments of silver returned to Li Chi’s hands.

The three men looked at each other, and only then noticed that their eyes had all gone bloodshot.

“Do the three of you gamble ordinarily?” Li Chi asked.

Deflated as punctured bladders, none of them could manage a reply.

“Since you’re out of money,” Li Chi said pleasantly, “I suppose you may as well get back to the drumming.”

“I want to keep betting!” the drummer said, his eyes still red.

“With what?”

The drummer patted himself down. He’d brought no silver. He looked to his two companions—between them they only had a few copper coins.

Li Chi sighed. “How about this—we wager with your drum? I’ll call it ten taels. If I lose, I’ll pay back ten times that.”

And so.

Not long after, the drum belonged to Li Chi.

The three men slumped on the ground, as if they’d lost even the strength to stand.

Li Chi opened the cell door and carried the drum inside.

Now, then.

It was his turn to drum. He could beat it when he felt like it, leave it when he didn’t. Play whatever he pleased, whatever tune he liked.

He plopped himself down on top of the cowhide drum, and with a satisfied air announced: “Much more comfortable than sitting on the floor. The floor is really quite cold…”

And having said so, he shifted his weight and released a fart against the drumhead, drawing out a resonant vibrato.

—