Chapter 4: A Single Name—“Ma”

As I displayed the hand sign, the stall owner paused. He stared at me and asked, "What plaque hangs at your waist? How many incense sticks are lit in your burner?"

Hearing this question, I breathed a sigh of relief. Having read Liu Qingshan’s notes, I was familiar with the jargon of the Thousand Sect—the secret language of con artists. I had signaled him to help Chen Jianjun minimize his losses; this was known as "lifting the reed," a way of identifying myself as an insider to show that I understood their trade and would not interfere.

Since I had "lifted the reed," they were required to "clear the path"—a cross-examination to find out where I came from, who my master was, and how many people I had with me.

I smiled and replied, "The old master once crossed the Western Pass. I wear no plaque at my waist, and there is but one stick of incense in the burner. My surname is simply Ma."

The "old master" referred to my father. My answer meant that he had once roamed the underworld, but the "no plaque" signified that I had no formal lineage or sect. The "one stick of incense" was the crucial part. Liu Qingshan had taught me that the Thousand Sect relied on eight operatives, and a job wouldn't flourish with fewer than five. Whether it was the "Upper Eight" or the "Lower Eight" ranks, the strategy required a team to handle lookouts, recruiting, and information gathering. A con required a meticulous plan, and "no flower blooms with fewer than five" meant that with fewer than five people, the risk was too high. By saying "one stick of incense," I was claiming my father operated as a lone wolf. As for "surname Ma," it was a reference to the four traditional categories of swindlers—the Bees, the Ants, the Swallows, and the Sparrows. Claiming the Ma (Ants) meant my father worked alone.

I said this because I was still unfamiliar with the notes and feared that if he kept pressing, I would reveal my ignorance and invite trouble. I used my father as a shield, hoping the man would be lenient if I made any mistakes.

Sure enough, the stall owner muttered, "So, you're only half-initiated. No wonder you couldn't recognize our 'Three Immortals Return to the Cave' trick. But since you’ve shown the mark of the Thousand Sect, I’ll give you face. Get going."

I cupped my hands in gratitude, grabbed the nearly one hundred yuan Chen Jianjun had just bet, and pulled him away.

Chen Jianjun was reluctant, protesting, "A-Cheng, don't pull me! I would have won that round for sure, I saw it clearly!"

The stall owner sneered, "Your brother helped you out, and you're still not convinced? I'll show you."

He lifted the bowl, and the two melon seeds Chen Jianjun had seen moments ago had now become three. Chen was dumbfounded. He turned to the other players around the table and asked, "That's impossible! We all clearly saw two seeds just now!"

The other players stared at him with cold, mocking smiles, as if looking at a fool.

"What are you all laughing at?" Chen Jianjun demanded.

Seeing this, my scalp went numb. I had thought there were a few real players, but it turned out the entire crowd were con artists—the audience, the gamblers, and the stall owner were all acting out a play for him alone. Seeing him about to make a bigger fool of himself, I dragged him away.

After walking for a while, Chen Jianjun was still indignant. Once I explained that the entire group—the spectators, the gamblers, and the owner—had been working together, the naive youth finally realized what had happened and threatened to call the police.

I sighed. "Forget it. They gave us face; even if you called the police, they wouldn't catch them. The Eight Operatives of the Thousand Sect include lookouts and cleanup crews. As soon as a police car arrived, they would have vanished."

"How do you know all this?" Chen Jianjun asked.

"I read it in a book," I replied with a smile.

Chen didn't ask further; he had no interest in books. He kept his face dark and didn't speak. Although he had saved ninety yuan, he had still lost eighty—a significant sum in these times—so it was no surprise he was in a foul mood.

We boarded a bus. It was crowded and smelled foul. The driver was a reckless type who braked and accelerated with violent force. In front of me stood a girl of about twenty, average height but with a well-proportioned figure. As the bus surged and stopped, her body swayed with the inertia, pressing against me. The surprising softness of the contact made my face flush. As a country bumpkin newly arrived in the city, I was extremely nervous. The girl frowned, clearly disgusted by the involuntary contact.

While there is an old saying that one would be a fool not to take advantage of such things, I couldn't bring myself to take advantage of someone in distress. I tried to turn sideways to make the next collision less awkward. The girl noticed my gesture and looked back at me with a grateful glance. As she looked up, I saw her face—it had a few small freckles, but her skin was fair and her peach-blossom eyes were bright and spirited.

However, a moment later, the girl suddenly shifted her angle and began to press herself into my chest, making my young heart race.

Why was she doing this? Had my noble character won her over?

I looked down and saw her face was flushed to the roots of her ears, pressed almost entirely against my chest. Her body was trembling with tension. Looking over her shoulder, I realized the true reason for her "throwing herself at me."

Behind her, a young man with dyed yellow hair was pressed tightly against her.

Anyone could see what the yellow-haired punk was doing.

Of two evils, she chose the lesser. She would rather let a man with a decent moral compass like me take advantage of her than suffer that level of harassment.

But the girl leaned forward, and the punk didn't let up; he kept pushing forward, his face wearing an arrogant smirk.

At this point, as a man, I had to do something. Especially since she had chosen to hide in my arms to escape the indignity behind her, could I just stand by?

I pulled the girl behind me.

At that moment, I saw something that truly opened my eyes. The punk’s trousers were unzipped.

Caught red-handed in such a despicable act, the guy immediately flew into a rage.