Chapter Nine: Lai Zitou, Driven Mad by Losses, Encounters Song Mo with a Heart Full of Anxiety

The thirteenth year of Jian’an, August 11th.

Late in the evening.

Outside the Xuanle Gate, Zhang Donkey pounded his flat, scabby head in frustration as he stared at the closed city gate, cursing under his breath, “It was just a bit of drinking, damn it! Why did they have to shut the gate so early tonight?”

Zhang Donkey was a subordinate of Yu Mofan, the leader of the Canal Gang in Darkmoon City. The outer districts of Jian’an depended heavily on river transport, with countless boatmen and towmen plying their trade.

His real name was not Zhang Donkey. Yu Mofan had business dealings across the three counties outside the capital, and at the middle of each month, someone swift of foot was needed to collect the monthly dues.

Sishui County, Tianshui County, and Changning County were all fifty li from the capital—a round trip of a hundred li. For the average person, it was impossible to return before sunset.

Though Zhang Donkey was well-versed in all manner of vice—drinking, gambling, whoring—he possessed one notable skill: he could run faster than anyone. Whenever there were dues to collect, he was always the one sent, sure to return before the gates closed in the evening.

Over time, Yu Mofan made him the regular collector for the three counties. The Canal Gang brothers gave him the nickname “Zhang Donkey”—his speed matched a horse’s, but his flat, scabby head made him look more like a balding donkey.

And so, the name Zhang Donkey spread.

A silent, round moon hung high above the city wall. Still slightly drunk, Zhang Donkey had no idea the gates had been closed for two hours. He rubbed his bleary eyes and, not one for ceremony, gathered some fallen leaves into a pile and settled down comfortably atop them.

The early autumn leaves were soft. Carefree as always, Zhang Donkey rolled over and buried himself completely. From a distance, no one would suspect a drunken scab-head lay hidden beneath that pile.

After the time it takes an incense stick to burn, Zhang Donkey was drifting in and out of sleep when the urgent clatter of hooves reached his ears.

Annoyed, he cursed and tried to roll over and continue sleeping.

Moments later, those hooves drew closer, heading straight toward him—clearly, some wayfarer, finding the gate shut, planned to spend the night nearby as well.

Zhang Donkey, thinking the leaf pile his own handiwork, figured he’d charge this interloper a fee for sleeping there—two copper coins would buy a decent breakfast come morning.

Having made up his mind, he squinted out from the leaves.

By the light of the moon, he saw the newcomer clearly—a familiar face.

It was Zhang Wei, the constable of Changning County.

Since Zhang Donkey collected dues for Yu Mofan each month, he frequented the surrounding counties and knew this constable by sight.

Since ancient times, thieves fear the magistrate, concubines fear the marital bed, and sons fear their fathers. Zhang Donkey dared not think of charging for the night anymore. As he was about to get up and greet Zhang Wei, four dark shapes dashed out from the shadows.

Before Zhang Donkey could warn him, Zhang Wei—hardened by ten years in the northern army and eight more as constable—was already reacting.

With the agility of a hawk, Zhang Wei leapt, trying to mount his horse and escape. But the four assassins had come prepared. One swept a curved blade to block his path, while the other three moved swiftly—two pinning him down, the third driving a dagger into his chest.

Zhang Donkey had seen his share of gang fights, but never anything like this. The shock sobered him instantly.

He dared not move, hidden in the leaves, while the four shadows rifled through Zhang Wei’s corpse. Suddenly, the distant beat of metal clappers signaled the approach of the Night Patrol from the Northern Garrison.

The assassins dragged Zhang Wei’s body to the moat and tossed it in, then melted away, silent as ghosts.

Zhang Donkey didn’t dare budge until the patrol had passed. When he finally crawled out, he realized the assassins hadn’t had time to find what they sought on Zhang Wei before they were interrupted.

At first, Zhang Donkey wanted only to flee the scene, but then a bold idea flashed in his mind.

In the Zhou Dynasty, murder was a grave crime, and to kill a court official meant extermination of one’s entire clan. Four masked assassins, lying in wait outside Xuanle Gate to ambush the constable of Changning, and then searching his corpse—could it be that Zhang Wei had been carrying something of immense value?

Was this all a plot for profit?

Once the thought took root, it grew wild and unchecked. Zhang Donkey became convinced Zhang Wei had something extraordinary on him, and he’d seen clearly that the assassins had left empty-handed.

In other words, the treasure was still there.

All fear forgotten, he cared nothing for the risk of the assassins returning. He thought only of retrieving the treasure from Zhang Wei’s corpse and squandering it at the Darkmoon City gambling dens—perhaps even finding Little Peach Blossom at the brothel for some fun. The thought made him grin lecherously.

Without another word, taking advantage of the empty surroundings, Zhang Donkey fished Zhang Wei’s corpse from the moat.

Under the blood-red moon, he searched the body thoroughly, but found nothing save a useless ledger. Not a single coin.

His excitement turned to rage at the disappointment. Cursing, he stuffed the ledger into his shirt—never leave empty-handed—then kicked the corpse back into the moat.

Even Zhang Donkey’s reckless nature knew better than to hide in the leaf pile now. Regaining some sense, he realized the assassins might return, and so, relying on his speed, he ran a dozen li away and hid in a mountain cave.

The night passed uneventfully. At dawn, as soon as the gates opened, he hurried back into the city and reported to Yu Mofan, handing over the collected dues.

...

Song Mo, watching from the shadows in Darkmoon City, saw Zhang Donkey slip the ledger into his coat and head for the gambling house. After a moment’s thought, Song Mo followed him in.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the crude shouts of gamblers. Young women in white robes and black skirts shook dice cups at the tables.

Soon, Song Mo spotted Zhang Donkey at a pai gow table.

A young woman in a thin blue dress sang out, “The more you bet, the more you win! Copper coins for silver geese, big bets win big, brush bets win calligraphy, the wind blows straw hats over quails, a gale sweeps the haystacks, gather the wheat to steam your buns. The boat won’t wait, let’s go!”

Zhang Donkey gripped his two tiles, muttering, “Nine points, nine points…”

Song Mo realized they were playing for points—nine was the highest, winner takes all.

After another round, Zhang Donkey tossed his tiles on the table in frustration.

He’d lost eight games in a row, squandering all his collected dues and now owing the house two taels of silver.

The tiles clattered as a new round began. Eyes red with loss, Zhang Donkey reached to place another bet. A fellow gambler jeered, “Old Donkey, you still got money? If you’re broke, don’t hold up our fun.”

Zhang Donkey retorted, “I may be broke, but I’ve got a treasure!”

The others burst out laughing. “You? If we dug up your ancestors’ graves, we wouldn’t find a coffin or even a straw mat. Treasure, my foot! Tell that to the ghosts.”

Stung by their mockery, Zhang Donkey pulled the ledger from his coat and slapped it on the table. “This has the official seal on it!”

A literate gambler glanced at it and the table erupted in laughter. “I thought it was some ancient rare book—just a travel pass ledger!”

Illiterate, Zhang Donkey had been fooled by the official seal into thinking it was valuable, so he’d treasured it. Realizing now it was worthless, his face burned with embarrassment.

In a fit of anger, he snatched up the ledger and flung it from the table.

By chance, it landed at Song Mo’s feet.