Chapter Thirty: Better Not to Meet Than to Meet

It was no wonder He Ru was astonished; just moments ago, Xu You had solemnly declared that the trap laid by Du Jingzhi was an unsolvable deathtrap, yet in the blink of an eye, he had deduced a way to break it. Such shrewdness was truly alarming, almost beyond belief.

Xu You spoke in a low voice, “Is your plan to fight a charlatan with another charlatan?”

“A charlatan?”

The era in which the word “charlatan” gained its derogatory nuance is uncertain—terms like ‘charlatan’, ‘gambler’, ‘scoundrel’, ‘lecher’, ‘bachelor’—and Xu You realized he had carelessly used a word incomprehensible to others. He explained, “Those who pretend to be mystical or divine, they can all be called charlatans! Isn’t Du Jingzhi the greatest charlatan in all of Sanwu?”

“Charlatan? Ha, I like that title. Next time I see Du Jingzhi, I’ll use it to put him in his place!” He Ru, honest yet unceremonious, claimed the term as his own, then gazed at Xu You, saying after a pause, “So you really anticipated my intentions, Seventh Young Master. If I hadn’t heard it myself, I would never have believed it…”

Xu You smiled faintly. “It was actually your remark about not confronting Du Jingzhi head-on that sparked the idea. I followed that line of thought and delved deeper. Perhaps it’s true that even a fool, after a thousand attempts, will stumble upon a good one.”

“Seventh Young Master, you’re too modest. I think it’s more that great minds think alike.”

Xu You was about to speak when a man entered from outside the courtyard—it was Zhan Ting, whom they had met earlier that day. He approached the group with an unhurried smile. “The attendants were ignorant of proper manners just now and may have treated you poorly. On my humble account, I hope you won’t take offense.”

The old saying goes, ‘One does not strike a smiling man,’ but it held no sway with He Ru. He frowned and said, “The servants play the villains, then the master comes to play the gentleman. We’re not three-year-old children—what good are these base tricks? Speak plainly. If you weave words and play schemes, you, who waste your days gambling and learning nothing, whom do you think you can outplay?”

The era of the Wei, Jin, and Northern and Southern Dynasties was rife with gambling, from emperors and nobles to common folk—all were addicted. The game He Ru referred to was ‘liubo’, a form of gambling. According to the ‘Yan Family Instructions’, liubo was a two-person game: the players sat opposite, the board had twelve paths with water in the center. Six black and six white rectangular pieces were placed on the board. Two fish tokens were set in the water. The players took turns throwing dice; the number rolled determined how many steps a piece could move. When a piece reached the end, it stood upright and became a ‘brave piece’. Brave pieces could enter the water and ‘catch fish’, winning counters; six counters meant victory.

Zhan Ting’s face changed drastically. “He Young Master, I believe I’ve never offended you—why do you speak so harshly?”

He Ru snorted coldly, his gaze disdainful. “Your ugly face makes me sick to look at.”

In short: I despise you for being ugly!

Zhan Ting could hardly believe his ears—someone in Qiantang dared to insult him so openly? It was intolerable. No longer able to maintain his gentlemanly façade, his face darkened, and he clapped his hands twice.

A flurry of footsteps sounded as more than twenty men rushed in, all dressed in black with sleeveless tunics and tight trousers, each wielding a staff over a meter long. The staff—a ‘shu’—was a weapon like a club, with ridges and blades at the end, made from bundled bamboo or wood, wrapped in silk thread. Though not as deadly as sharp swords, it excelled in length and weight, making it a formidable tool in brawls, akin to the “brick” of later ages.

These men stood behind Zhan Ting in two rows, fierce and menacing, intimidating Xu You and his companions with their sharp gazes.

“So this is how you intend to drive us away—by hiring thugs. Much more straightforward. Since you’d already set your ambush, why bother with all the words earlier?”

“This is called courtesy before force. I’ve done all I can, so if I drive you out, no one can complain.”

He Ru sneered, “Zhan Wuqiu, people say you’re petty and narrow-minded, lacking both courage and wisdom, but at least you’re from a noble family. You haven’t learned even a tenth of your father’s skill, resorting only to lowly tricks—what a disgrace to your ancestors. ‘Courtesy before force’? It’s laughable!”

Xu You paid no mind to the twenty-odd thugs before him. These so-called ‘youxia’ were nothing more than the petty hooligans of his era. They might be a menace to ordinary folk, but compared to the cunning and ruthless schemers, these brawlers were almost naïve.

“I’ve heard that Zhan Wuqiu of Qiantang is famed for his chivalry and intelligence. Without him, the Zhan family’s fortune would have collapsed years ago.”

“Rumors are often false; who knows what lies beneath? I even suspect these words are spread by Zhan Ting himself to build a reputation.”

Zhan Ting remained silent, eyes fixed on He Ru as if ready to devour him.

Zuo Wen, wary of trouble, unobtrusively moved closer to He Ru, right hand gripping his sword hilt, ready to shield Xu You, He Ru, and Qiufen should anything happen.

“Really? I don’t think Wuqiu Young Master is that shameless… Well, it’s hard to say. You can paint a tiger’s skin but not its bones; you know a man’s face but not his heart. In this world, there are gentlemanly scholars, but also petty ones.”

In the ‘Analects: Yong Ye’, Confucius told Zi Xia: “Be a gentleman scholar, not a petty scholar.” Simply put, it’s the difference between a true gentleman and a pretender.

“You can paint a tiger’s skin but not its bones; you know a man’s face but not his heart… Seventh Young Master, your words are so incisive they rival the monk Tan Qian’s appraisals of character.”

Zhan Ting, battered by their verbal assault, was nearly spitting blood. How could he stand to remain here? He spat, “Gentleman or villain, it’s not for you to say. But whether you can live peacefully in Qiantang is entirely up to me!”

With that, he turned and left. Moments later, Dou Qi entered, wearing a folded cap and a broad brown robe, a purple ai knife at his waist. He pushed through the crowd, immediately spotting He Ru beside Xu You, and barked, “You old scoundrel, you’re obviously with them! I wondered why you suddenly stuck your neck out—turns out a cunning fox was born to a vicious wolf, none of you are decent!”

‘Old scoundrel’ was a grave insult—‘Records of the Three Kingdoms’ notes that Peng Yang insulted Liu Bei with this very term. ‘Ge’ also means ‘soldier’; in times when civil virtues were prized over martial ones, calling someone an old scoundrel was a serious affront. Moreover, Dou Qi’s words insulted their ancestors, making it clear that, even without the issue of venison, it was a fight to the death.

“Slap him!”

Xu You had barely spoken when Zuo Wen darted forward, stopping a foot from Dou Qi and raising his left hand toward Dou Qi’s right cheek.

Dou Qi was startled. His purple ai knife was too slow to draw; he pressed his palm against the hilt, flipping the blade so its tip faced upward, blocking Zuo Wen’s strike.

With a subtle maneuver, he dropped the blade from its sheath to his hand, then swung it in a half-circle, aiming for Zuo Wen’s waist and abdomen.

“Excellent!”

“The Master’s move is truly formidable!”

“That old fellow was quick, but compared to the Master, he’s nothing!”

The thugs cheered, their flattery crashing like waves. Dou Qi was proud of his swift defense and attack. As he imagined the sound of his knife slicing through flesh, his left cheek suddenly stung.

Smack!

Dou Qi flew several meters sideways, crashing heavily to the ground. His ornate purple ai knife tumbled even further, his face swollen and blood trickling from his mouth.

“What?”

“What happened?”

“How did the Master… how…”

The thugs stared at each other, unable to see what had just transpired. Only Xu You understood: Zuo Wen’s first strike was a feint, a probe, using only a tenth of his strength. Once Dou Qi revealed his move, Zuo Wen struck with his right hand—a full-force slap.

Dou Qi had earned his reputation in Qiantang with some ruthlessness. Defeated in an instant by Zuo Wen, he was not cowed; instead, he spat blood and shouted, “Attack! All of you! Life or death doesn’t matter! Leave the young girl—tonight let the brothers have some fun!”

The thugs, emboldened by their numbers, shouted as one and surrounded them, wielding their staffs.

“Charge!”

Seven or eight staffs attacked from all sides—thrusting, smashing, swinging, all with practiced technique, not mere rabble.

He Ru’s expression shifted, muttering, “Four-square stance, crossing sword stance, cavalry stance… mountain-splitting stance…”

Clang!

Zuo Wen, sword in hand, radiated cold light. He leapt, swift and elusive, cutting through the crowd like a wolf among sheep. Those he touched fell, those he struck were wounded; his sword snapped staffs, and none could match him. Yet he mostly used his shoulder, elbow, knee, and the back of his sword, punishing lightly, not killing.

In moments, the courtyard was filled with wailing and broken staffs. Zuo Wen sheathed his sword, unruffled and steady, and said, “Young Master, is this lesson sufficient? Considering we’ll be settling here, killing anyone would bring trouble with the county authorities.”

“You did well! Killing in broad daylight is always troublesome, and not all these men deserve death,” Xu You laughed. “But Wind Tiger, do you have some personal preferences? Those three are wounded quite badly.”

He pointed to three men: one with a broken left arm, another missing three fingers, and a third with a shattered leg. Their cries were the most pitiful. The others, though bruised, had only superficial wounds, and their lamentations seemed more for show.

In any brawl, there are always some who shirk their efforts—this has been true throughout history.

Zuo Wen explained, “Those three have much higher skill than the others; their attacks were vicious and cunning. In the chaos, it was hard to restrain myself… But they only have broken bones; a doctor can set them, and they’ll recover in a hundred days.”

Xu You was intrigued. He knew Zuo Wen’s martial skill intimately—if he couldn’t hold back against a few Qiantang thugs, these three must be more than mere street ruffians. Could they actually be of a higher caliber?

Zuo Wen noticed Xu You’s curiosity. “These three aren’t exceptional in actual skill, but their staff technique is quite systematic, working together cleverly, balancing offense and defense. If they’d learned to cultivate their breath, they’d have been much harder to defeat.”

“Is that so?”

Xu You had observed the group’s staff techniques, but hadn’t experienced them firsthand, so his insight was less acute than Zuo Wen’s.

He glanced at He Ru, who was thoughtfully examining the broken staffs strewn across the courtyard, recalling his earlier mutterings about four-square and crossing sword stances. Xu You’s eyes narrowed quietly, and he suddenly asked, “Qi Yi, do you know the origin of this staff technique?”

He Ru’s face took on a lonely look, and in a voice only those nearby could hear, he said, “This is the Northern Wei Buddhist staff technique, created by my mentor Zhi Dao’an. I never practiced martial arts, so only my senior Qing Luan mastered it…”

He Ru had mentioned to Xu You before that five years ago he and his mentor had fled south from the Northern Dynasty, but he had never spoken of this senior.

“Where is Qing Luan now?”

“He came south with us… but I left my teacher early to pursue my own goals, so I don’t know where my senior is now…”

Xu You’s gaze swept over Dou Qi, who was struggling to rise. Picking up a broken staff, Xu You went over and smashed it against the back of Dou Qi’s head.

With a thud, Dou Qi collapsed, completely unconscious.

Xu You tossed aside the staff, dusted his hands, and returned. Qiufen took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped the dust from his hands.

Xu You smiled and let her be, then said, “So your senior Qing Luan might very well be living here in Qiantang?”

Zuo Wen replied, “That’s easy enough. Since these thugs know your mentor’s staff technique, following them should reveal whether your senior truly resides here.”

He Ru fell silent, then sighed softly after a while. “What does it matter if I see him or not? Let it be.”