Chapter Twelve: A Born Gambler

Seated on the seven-jewel tiger skin throne in the grand hall of the Tusi Mansion, Chen Yuchong let out a cold snort upon receiving the news of Ye Xi’s arrival. Rising to his full height, he murmured, “I never wished for your death, nor did I believe you had no way out. Yet you insist on seizing what rightfully belongs to me.” He spoke softly, “Then, young lady, I’m afraid I must disappoint you.”

All along, Chen Yuchong believed that the calamity that befell the Ye family was heaven’s gift—a second chance bestowed upon him.

Few knew that before becoming the all-powerful steward of Chishui territory, Chen had endured a life of dramatic rises and falls under the patronage of the Ye family head.

Years ago, despite the cold mockery of his clan, Chen Yuchong resolutely plunged into commerce. Fate seemed to favor him especially; in the treacherous sea of trade, each of his decisions struck with precision, yielding handsome returns.

Within a few years, he amassed considerable wealth. Those relatives who once sneered at him now sought his favor, eager to build connections.

Having two distant cousins within the clan, they respectfully dubbed him “The Third Young Master of the Chen Family.”

Yet, fate is unpredictable. Even a seemingly fortunate merchant like him could not escape the market’s ruthless culling.

That year, far across the ocean in the European land of the Netherlands (referred to by the Ming as the “Red Barbarians”), a raging speculation frenzy over tulips was underway. People no longer admired tulips merely for their beauty; they regarded them as symbols of wealth that could rapidly appreciate. They flooded the market to buy tulip bulbs and contracts, hoping to reap enormous profits from soaring prices.

This capital farce, unfolding on the other side of the world, appeared unrelated to Ming—and indeed, it was.

But Chen Yuchong thought otherwise.

Upon learning the word “capital” from a Red Barbarian acquaintance, he immediately concluded, “Capital is global; one day the world will be completely integrated by capital.”

He took great pride in his far-sighted vision.

Should one marvel at his extraordinary connections, or lament that years of smooth sailing had dulled his necessary vigilance?

In any case, the unexpected struck.

Through Red Barbarian merchants he met years ago in Songjiang Prefecture, Chen learned of this novel wealth game. He entrusted the business to his subordinates but chose to cross the ocean himself, bringing most of his fortune to participate in the native Dutch speculation.

Theoretically, the tulip price bubble would not burst for several more years.

However, Dutch tulip trading was based on the Amsterdam Exchange, essentially a numerical futures game.

From this perspective, Chen’s mode of involvement was particularly unwise.

Ming people were reluctant to join this distant game; Chen, unfamiliar with Dutch soil, lost the solid footing he once enjoyed. His speculative venture was akin to sailing blindly into unknown waters, destined to crash upon hidden reefs.

As expected, his invested funds vanished like earth swallowed by water, leaving him bankrupt.

Worse, only a small portion of the capital he invested was his own; the majority came from Chen relatives who once called him “Third Young Master,” as well as other partners.

Overnight, he fell from the clan’s pride to a pariah, hunted and reviled. He even suffered a broken leg, which drove him mad, wandering alone down desolate roads.

His memories of those years, spent wandering and begging across provinces, were fragmentary and hazy—shattered, save for the ingrained sensations of hunger, cold, and shame. He vaguely recalled fighting like a wild dog with other beggars for scraps, scavenging rotten food from garbage heaps in broken bowls, being hung from a tree and whipped by ruffians for sport, awakening in a new city with wounds long scabbed over.

His recollections were intermittent; throughout his wandering, he saw the common folk growing ever poorer by the day.

Eventually, he lost his mind completely. How could he not? This land offered no endless, despairing plains—only endless mountains. His foggy consciousness felt trapped in a monotonous, eternal cycle before he passed out, as if slipping into eternal peace.

As if awakening from a long sleep, his mind miraculously returned. He gradually reconstructed his identity and life story, except for that tangled chapter of wandering, which remained a fragmented knot.

Soon he realized it was no miracle, but the power of authority.

Healing a mad, crippled beggar demanded more than money—it required formidable connections. For the Tusi lord who ruled Chishui with unchecked power, this was no problem.

This was a very familiar tale: the Tusi family’s young lady kindly took in a fainted beggar, and her equally kind father, regarded by outsiders as sparing no expense, summoned renowned doctors for treatment.

Chen Yuchong was no stranger to such stories. Before his bankruptcy, he had woven such tales himself, playing both the villain who trampled on others’ dignity and the benevolent figure in the eyes of the poor and destitute.

Unlike him, who treated these contradictions as a game of winning hearts, this family seemed to genuinely believe in something.

Was it because their lives were too comfortable?

Chen had reflected countless times on his failure. He firmly believed he had not misjudged; he was convinced that those driven mad could create huge profits for those bold enough to manipulate hearts.

So where had he gone wrong?

Chen Yuchong felt it no longer mattered.

Merchants like him could be ruined forever by a single misstep at a critical moment, while others were born with what he had chased his entire life—without fear of loss.

In an instant, Chen understood what he truly desired—power.

Not the power bought with money, but power itself.

Only power was the most beautiful thing in this world. This was the realization Chen stumbled upon after a lifetime of hardship.

He began subtly showcasing his talents to the Tusi family, his performances seemingly in gratitude for their salvation. Even the Tusi patriarch, who nominally abdicated but still held real influence, failed to detect Chen’s burning ambition.

Soon, Chen rose swiftly within Chishui, promoted by the Tusi as a local chief, serving as steward to help manage regional affairs.

But the sudden arrival of An Litong, a young military commander from Shuixi, hastened his plans—allowing him to move early without becoming the villain who wiped out the entire family.

The appointment as Deputy Anfu of Chishui, along with real control over the territory, fell into Chen’s hands like a ripe golden peach.

Chen Yuchong understood—this was his moment of triumph.

He never gave up, enduring countless setbacks that never defeated him. Was this not heaven’s blessing?

Though Chen claimed the credit of rallying the remnants and rebuilding Chishui during Ye Xi’s youth, earning the deputy position, he believed he had contributed greatly to the territory’s reconstruction. He took charge of post-Shuixi withdrawal rebuilding without hesitation and did not feel indebted to the Ye family.

“Ye Xi, you can stay in Guiyang and continue as your title demands—the General of Zhaowu, leading a guerrilla battalion. You’re a warrior; is Chishui truly that important to you?” Chen muttered to himself. “You think I’m ungrateful, but I think you are utterly foolish. The greedy one is not me—it’s you!”