Chapter 43
Chapter 43
Ah Hao and Shuai Zai left Liu Wenhe’s turf in silence, both weighed down by their thoughts.
Seeing their leaders so downcast, the boys following them tried to offer suggestions.
“Ah Hao, are we still going to do something about this?”
“Why don’t we ask around the gang? Liu Wenhe’s only a White Paper Fan. We could tell his enemies.”
“If that doesn’t work, we can ask the Second Marshal to back us up. See if he’s still so cocky then.”
Shuai Zai brought a fist down on the boy’s head. “You think it’s that simple?”
“Why would the bosses listen to us? We were sticking our noses in to begin with. Besides…”
He cautiously stopped himself, then deliberately changed tack, raising his voice. “Forget it! Fucking forget it! This is a pain in the ass, and there’s nothing we can do!”
Ah Hao’s eyes shifted. Whatever he was planning, he deliberately began swearing at the foot of the building housing Liu Wenhe’s gambling parlor.
He hurled the foulest insults he could think of, until people came out upstairs to look.
One lackey stuck his head out and threw a machete down. “What the hell are you doing? Got a death wish?”
Liu Wenhe came out with a woman in his arms and spat down at them. “You two disgusting little shits. Stay right there if you’ve got the guts.”
Then he sent a man for a bucket of piss to pour over them. Ah Hao and Shuai Zai saw what was coming but didn’t move away.
Filth rained down on their heads. They scrambled to dodge it, but plenty still splashed onto them, leaving them a wretched sight. Laughter erupted from above.
They fled down the street with their arms over their heads, drawing a crowd of spectators.
This was prime entertainment. Word quickly spread that the newly notorious Ah Hao and Shuai Zai had been doused in shit.
Their followers seethed. On the streets, respect was everything.
If people started calling them Shit-Eater or Stinking Toilet, how were they supposed to show their faces? They’d die of shame.
Hearing the muttering, Ah Hao growled, “Die of shame? I’ll tell you what dying means. It means getting dumped somewhere as a corpse. What’s more important, your life or your reputation–”
Shuai Zai stopped him before he gave too much away. “Anyway, we’re getting cleaned up and going drinking. Make sure you tell everyone what a bastard Liu Wenhe is.”
“Nobody goes home to sleep tonight. We’ll find somewhere crowded and have a good time. My treat.”
The boys thought their bosses were simply cowards clinging to their lives, and that the offer to pay was meant to keep them happy. They had no idea what a disaster it would spare them.
Zhao Xiuming examined his dark little cell. The only window was a slit in the wooden door. The room was dim and stank to high heaven.
There was no bed, only a filthy pad thrown on the floor, stained with dried blood.
A rust-covered metal bucket stood in a corner, presumably serving as a toilet.
Most conspicuous of all were the chains embedded in the wall and the hanging instruments of torture.
The people who had locked him in seemed entirely unconcerned about leaving weapons in the room. They had posted just one man outside the door.
Zhao Xiuming heard Dahu giving instructions outside, catching phrases like “look after him” and “don’t hit him.”
He received no answer, only an impatient dismissal.
Once Zhao Xiuming was sure Dahu had left, his smile faded. His expression grew calm and detached.
He glanced at the guard outside: a powerfully built thug whose tattoos stretched over bulging arm muscles. His buzz cut made his ears and nose look particularly large.
And especially…
Zhao Xiuming’s gaze dropped to his chest, where an exquisitely carved jade Buddha pendant hung.
He even wore prayer beads and a Buddhist amulet at his wrist, though the beads looked rather comical around such a thick arm.
“Sir,” Zhao Xiuming called from behind the door. “I’d like to deceive you.”
The thug turned impatiently, ready to bark a few threats.
But the moment he met Zhao Xiuming’s eyes, he froze.
These weren’t the cautious, pleading, terrified eyes he expected from a hostage.
They held nothing but mockery and amusement. The boy was provoking him!
The thug knew he ought to fly into a rage. Yet it was as if cold water had doused his anger.
In its place came involuntary awe, a shudder that rose from deep inside him, remorse and self-reproach.
His past sins flooded back. The people who had died horribly at his hands appeared around him, filled with resentment.
Behind the locked door, Zhao Xiuming’s smile gradually faded. His lowered eyes seemed full of compassion.
His whole face glowed. No, that wasn’t right. His entire body was glowing!
This bloody, filthy room had been a place of torment, where they imprisoned and punished girls who disobeyed, refused to serve clients properly, or tried to run away.
Wails often rose from this cramped, damp hell, and bodies were carried out. Standing in its midst, Zhao Xiuming seemed utterly untouched by its filth.
He was like a messenger offering salvation from a sea of suffering, freeing the dead, lighting their path, and guiding them to the other shore.
The thug remembered his clear, untainted air, his pure eyes devoid of desire, the way he had treated Dahu and the others as equals.
Every detail swelled to immense significance, shaking the thug to his core.
If a true Buddha walked the earth, then Zhao Xiuming was his chance to awaken: to grasp karma and attain enlightenment!
Inside the room, a strand of emerald-green prayer beads had appeared in Zhao Xiuming’s hand. The item In the Name of God had taken this form.
The men smoking and playing cards on the same floor saw the thug known as Big-Eared Buddha standing motionless outside the torture room.
He didn’t answer when they called. Then he grew agitated, veins bulging in his neck and forehead, his face twisting with anger and struggle.
Suddenly, he shuddered and began unlocking the door like a madman, using so much force that the wood creaked.
One of the boys noticed something was wrong and shouted, “What are you doing, Big-Eared Buddha? Why are you opening the door? Has something happened to the pretty boy?”
He started over, then stopped a few yards away.
Big-Eared Buddha had collapsed to his knees, sobbing. Tears and snot streamed down his face as though his father had just died.
The student walked out as if nothing had happened. He neither panicked nor tried to escape.
Instead, with an indifferent expression, he reached out and ruffled the thug’s hair as though petting a dog.
Then he bent to whisper in the man’s ear. The approaching lackey couldn’t hear him and kept asking questions. “Weren’t we supposed to lock him up for two days without food or water? Why’d you let him out?”
“Why are you kneeling, Big-Eared Buddha? Hey, pretty boy, what are you saying to him? Get the fuck back inside. Want a beating?”
“I said, can’t you hear–”
The lackey swaggered closer. Before he could finish, his whole body convulsed.
Big-Eared Buddha, one of his own, had drawn the machete from his waist and plunged it into him.
The boy looked down in disbelief. Blood began spilling from his mouth.
The others jumped up, shouting demands to know what was happening.
Some, sensing danger, hurried to raise the alarm. The more timid ones immediately scrambled downstairs.