Chapter Seventy: The Gambler

"Change the tattoo?"

Back then, I gave Xiaowei a coin design, called the Prosperity Copper Coin—a beneficial, harmless yang tattoo. With this yang tattoo, Xiaowei amassed considerable wealth. Why would he suddenly want to change it?

Xiaowei chuckled, leaned close, and confided everything that had happened to him over the past while. The more I listened, the angrier I grew, slamming my palm heavily onto the table.

"No, absolutely not!"

Xiaowei's face darkened instantly, his expression turning fierce and unfamiliar.

"After all these years as brothers, you won't even help me with this?"

"It's not that I won't help you—helping you would be harming you!"

I gritted my teeth, staring hard at Xiaowei's face.

Turns out, after Xiaowei started doing business with Brother Wang, he spent his days frequenting entertainment venues, gaining experience and mixing into the circles of businessmen. Most bosses led debauched lives: drinking, women, and another favorite—gambling.

At first, Xiaowei was invited to a local underground casino by a collaborating boss, under the pretense of a business project. That night, in just two hours, he won forty thousand.

The windfall left him dizzy, an unprecedented rush of excitement and happiness flooding his body. Xiaowei, who had grown up poor, looked at the piles of chips, the fine red wine, the seductive women swaying, and was utterly lost in the life of luxury and excess.

Maybe it was luck, maybe the Prosperity Copper Coin worked, but he soon won enough for a Mercedes sports car.

From then on, he was deeply ensnared in the casino, sometimes even traveling with big bosses to Macau for a round of extravagance and flair. He loved the life of the wealthy, adored being treated with respect in the casinos, staying in the most luxurious suites, with personal assistants and the best service.

Xiaowei said, this was the life of the upper class—his lifelong pursuit.

He said he had enough money to spend, but loved the thrill of throwing fortunes onto the card table. As he described this pathological, distorted desire, he showed no hint of regret, only exhilaration.

Perhaps the stakes kept rising; now the copper coin’s effect no longer satisfied his cravings.

It infuriated me—and filled me with guilt. I was the one who let him work for Brother Wang; if I’d refused, or kept him from that circle, maybe he wouldn’t have changed so much.

My fist slammed the table again, regretful for my own naïveté, and grieving Xiaowei’s lack of self-restraint.

From childhood, I treated him as my own brother—no family to care for us, no prestigious education, both of us struggling for our next meal.

Some say brothers can share hardship but not wealth, but that was never my intention.

Yet some people change along the way.

Looking at Xiaowei now, his face twisted in rage, almost manic.

"After all these years as brothers, how can you be so selfish?"

"Selfish? This is gambling! You'll end up ruining your family!"

---

"Heh, can't you see now? I have money, I have women. Tell me, have you always treated me like a dog? Just your little sidekick! You never saw me as a brother, never respected me!"

Xiaowei roared, eyes bloodshot.

Something inside me seemed to shatter, a sour ache flooding my chest.

So this is how he sees me.

"From childhood, you were always above me. You had friends, you had a shop, you didn't have a drunken father, or a home you had to hide from because of violence! How happy you were, doing whatever you pleased. Even in this tattoo shop, I was just your sidekick—summoned at will, told to mind the shop, hand out flyers. When did you ever truly treat me as a brother?

Now that I'm rich, you're uncomfortable? Seeing my fancy car pains you? Let me tell you, Zhang Xu—I owe you nothing! What I pursue is wealth and glory!

Don't preach your so-called morals to me—I only care about money! Understand?"

Old Liao stood silently by, listening, saying nothing.

After venting, Xiaowei collapsed onto the sofa, clenched fists trembling, his gaze hollow.

I sat in my chair, feeling a deep, wrenching sense of defeat. At this moment, for the first time, I felt that yin-yang tattoos were not a good thing. At least, they had driven my brother completely astray.

"One word—are you going to do the tattoo or not? When I’m wealthy, I won’t forget you. Don’t be so selfish."

"It's not about reciprocation. You know yin-yang tattoos—they draw in filth. Aren't you afraid..."

"Afraid? Let me tell you, only the poor and powerless are afraid. In this society, money is status, money is everything. What's so scary about ghosts? People are scarier! When you were delivering food, and a single-minute delay had customers cursing your ancestors, do you know what that feels like? When you warned a restaurant about gutter oil and got abused for meddling, do you know what that feels like? When you had no money and had to walk home miles away, do you know what that feels like? Conscience, morality—what use are they? Money is more useful, get it?"

Only now did I realize I had never really understood him.

I saw him as a brother, but never knew his heart. So much resentment—what a tragedy for brotherhood.

I glanced at Old Liao, who just nodded at me.

I remembered what he once said: "Yin-yang tattoos don't decide the host's fate; the host chooses their own destiny."

Fine. Once this tattoo is done, we are no longer brothers.

I took a few deep breaths, steadying myself, and dialed Old Jin.

"Hello, Old Jin, bring some goods." Perhaps from heartbreak, my tone was icy, making Old Jin suspicious.

"Something happened? Need me to step in?"

"No, just a yin tattoo for fortune. Got any?"

"Hey, you’re asking the right person. A few days ago, Amao sent something over—a gambler who died at the card table. Powerful stuff. For changing fortune, it’s perfect."

"Send it over then."

"All right. Amao! Amao! Take those goods from a few days ago to your Brother Xu!"

Listening to Old Jin’s shouts through the phone, I felt conflicted. Old Jin, opportunistic as he was, still offered to help when he sensed trouble. Old Liao, a seasoned newcomer, stood by me. But Xiaowei, the brother who grew up with me, barely visited after he struck it rich, and now all he cared about in front of me was money.

There is no sorrow greater than a dead heart.

I traced the Prosperity Copper Coin design in my tattoo manual, thinking of the words Xiaowei and I once exchanged in the KTV before he left.

---

"Brother, I want to give you a tattoo, so you can live in wealth and glory."

I clearly remember those words—but things have changed beyond recognition.

Changing the tattoo is possible. Many designs are interconnected. Among the many yin tattoos, one stands out: the Treasure Ghost Goblet, an ancient vessel mainly used for holding wine.

Its ingenuity lies not in the intricate carved script, nor the tiny ghost mouth painted on the rim, but in the floating copper coin at the goblet’s mouth.

That coin is exactly the Prosperity Copper Coin tattooed on Xiaowei. If a change is needed, the Treasure Ghost Goblet is the best option.

Switching from yang to yin tattoos is risky. The dominance of yin spirits in the pattern varies, affecting the outcome, requiring the host to have an exceptionally strong spirit and unyielding will.

The Treasure Ghost Goblet has a strange story.

Legend has it, in the late Han dynasty, a merchant leading a caravan discovered a huge cave, its mouth gaping wide like an enormous maw. Curious, the group ventured inside.

Sure enough, deep in the cave, they found a gold and silver brocade box, exquisitely crafted, radiating luxury.

But the box couldn't be opened, no matter what. The merchant brought it home to study. One night, while reading bamboo slips, his finger was pricked by an unfinished edge, and drops of blood fell onto the desk—landing right on the box.

Miraculously, the box opened on its own, without any external force.

Intrigued, the merchant peeked inside, finding a strange wine goblet, covered in carved script, seemingly not of the current dynasty. Most striking was the goblet’s mouth, shaped as a little ghost’s head—twisted and grotesque, its mouth agape in eerie fashion.

The merchant wondered what it was for. Too frightening for drinking, too ugly for decoration.

So he left it sitting on the table.

Coincidentally, during a meal, the merchant grabbed a roast chicken, and the drumstick fell right into the goblet.

Strangely, it vanished instantly.

A while later, the goblet rattled, and with a crisp chime, a dozen coins bounced out.

Delighted, the merchant realized this goblet could turn things into money, and began experimenting.

He found that feeding it chicken, duck, goose, or fish yielded only coins—too little profit. Until one day, he dripped his own blood in.

A gold coin leapt out of the cup!

Greed overtook him. He began feeding the goblet with the blood and flesh of servants and subordinates, amassing wealth. But as time passed, the goblet’s effect diminished, fewer gold coins appeared.

Frustrated, he chopped off his own finger, feeding it to the goblet. Unexpectedly, the goblet swallowed the finger and produced no coins. The little ghost’s head turned, sprang from the cup, and pounced onto the merchant’s face. That day, all forty-seven members of the merchant's family perished.

Old Liao marveled at the tale. I looked at Xiaowei. "After hearing this bizarre story, do you still want the Treasure Ghost Goblet tattoo?"

I hoped the story might deter him, frighten him. But he just shrugged, unconcerned.

"Sure, why not? If money falls from the sky, why not take it?"