Chapter 79
Yang Mingyi knew that Fang Zichen was going to take the imperial examinations, so he brought some books from home, saying he was lending them to him. This saved a sum of money on buying books, and Fang Zichen was overjoyed, teaching Yang Mingyi with even more dedication. His handwriting was better than the copybooks sold in bookstores, so Yang Mingyi asked if he could teach him that too.
“Why wouldn’t that be possible?” Fang Zichen’s bravado seemed ready to burst through the heavens, boasting without shame: “Music, chess, calligraphy, painting—whatever you want to learn, just say it. Once a teacher, always a father—I’ll teach you everything, bro.”
“......” Yang Mingyi was silent for a moment: “Do you know how to play chess?”
“Yes, I do!” Fang Zichen said without hesitation.
Yang Mingyi looked at him doubtfully, took out a chess set: “Then let’s play a game?”
At the start, Fang Zichen let him have three moves. Yang Mingyi usually had no one to play with in the rear courtyard of the Yang residence.
The maids and servants feared him, Yang Mutao’s concubines disliked him, the main wife looked down on him, and coupled with his few words and cold nature, he went everywhere alone. Since learning to read at age six, he had often stayed alone in his own courtyard, quietly reading books—mostly chess manuals—playing chess against himself, pretending someone was playing with him. Over the long years, his chess skills had become quite refined.
Even the old dean of Anhe Academy had praised him.
When Fang Zichen gave him three moves, Yang Mingyi thought Fang Zichen’s skills were poor and that he had just been bragging earlier. He didn’t expect that after those three moves, Fang Zichen’s style would suddenly change, becoming aggressively pressing, each move a killer blow. Yang Mingyi racked his brains to make a move, his hand barely withdrawn from placing the piece when—smack—Fang Zichen, almost without thinking, placed a black piece, blocking the escape route Yang Mingyi had just found.
Back and forth, you come I go. After the time it takes half a stick of incense to burn, sweat gradually beaded on Yang Mingyi’s forehead, and his pace of placing pieces slowed.
Fang Zichen didn’t rush him. The breeze blew in from the window behind, cool and pleasant. He propped his cheek on one hand, leaning lazily against the edge of the table.
Everything was completely under his control.
No matter where Yang Mingyi moved, within three moves, Fang Zichen could slaughter him until not a tile remained.
His prediction was correct, Yang Mingyi didn’t survive these last three moves. On the board, the white pieces were completely surrounded by the black ones, with no way out.
Yang Mingyi frowned, biting his lower lip, his face somewhat pale, looking deeply shaken. Fang Zichen didn’t treat him like a ger, patting his shoulder: “Being able to last this long against me in chess is already quite impressive. A true man can bend and stretch—you must be able to handle both winning and losing.”
[大丈夫能屈能伸 (dàzhàngfū néng qū néng shēn): lit. A true man can bend and stretch; fig. a truly honorable person can endure humiliation or setbacks (屈) and seize success (伸) as needed, without losing integrity]
Besides Yang Mutao, no other man had ever touched him like this. Yang Mingyi stiffened slightly. Watching Fang Zichen’s boisterous, ‘good brother, follow me, fight tigers up the mountain and wrestle bulls below, I’ve got your back’ demeanor, he opened his mouth and said softly, “It’s just that you’re too skilled, Brother Fang.”
“Stop stating the obvious,” Fang Zichen, utterly unfamiliar with the concept of modesty, said: “I was just playing casually.” Preening, he also complimented Yang Mingyi, somewhat in a ‘share blessings and hardships together’ manner, saying: “Your chess skills are also very good. It’s just a pity you encountered someone as super skilled as me. Don’t worry, as long as you follow me and study hard, even just learning a move or half a move from me, in the future you’ll also be able to fight your way across the world without meeting your match.”
That boastful tone of his was so over-the-top that even if he hadn't brushed his teeth for eight hundred years, it couldn't have been any more pungent.
Yang Mingyi said: “Another game!”
“Alright.”
One game ended, and another began.
Fang Zichen’s nature was restless, playing two or three games was already his limit.
“Let’s stop here for today!”
Yang Mingyi shook his head. The more he lost, the more stubborn he became. Moreover, ‘crossing moves’ with a strong player, his brain operating at high speed the entire time, planning each step carefully, was both thrilling and addictive.
“...A man has three urgents, I’m retreating first.” Fang Zichen employed the classic ‘urine escape’ tactic and hurriedly ran off.
[A man has three urgents, the need to urinate, defecate, and pass gas]
Yang Mingyi frowned tightly, pondering over the chessboard. After the time it took half a cup of tea, an old man stroking his beard walked in.
“Yi Ger, what are you looking at?”
“Grandfather,” Yang Mingyi was somewhat surprised, but his expression remained aloof, not really showing it: “Why have you come?”
“Haven’t seen you for some time, came to take a look.” Old Man Wu said, walking to the table. The table was tidied clean, books, paper, and ink pushed to one side. A chessboard sat right in the center, the black and white pieces were particularly conspicuous.
His gaze was almost instantly captured by the chessboard.
Those who love chess only need a rough sweep to understand the situation on the board. The white pieces could be said to have been slaughtered by the black ones without any ability to fight back.
Yang Mingyi brewed a cup of tea for him. After a moment, he asked: “Grandfather, do you see any way for the white pieces to break out of this?”
Old Man Wu looked, growing more and more astonished. He forgot about the tea, lowering his eyes to think for a long while, finally shaking his head and sighing: “There is none.”
He knew Yang Mingyi loved chess and had the habit of playing both roles himself in a game. He praised: “It’s only been a few days, but Yi Ger’s chess skills have improved remarkably!”
He felt pleased, thinking that probably even he himself was no match for his little grandson now. Who knew Yang Mingyi would actually shake his head.
“I was playing the white pieces just now. The black pieces were played by Brother Fang.”
“Brother Fang?” Old Man Wu almost instantly said angrily: “Did that father of yours have a bastard child outside?”
“No,” Yang Mingyi explained: “He’s the teacher who’s teaching me bookkeeping.”
Hearing this, Old Man Wu remembered. Yang Mingyi had mentioned this to him before, but he hadn’t paid it much mind at the time, thinking it was just someone relatively skilled at bookkeeping. But no matter how skilled, that person belonged to the three religions and nine schools, mixed at the bottom among merchant circles, nothing worth attention. But looking at it now, this person seemed to have some substance.
[三教九流 (sānjiào jiǔliú): lit
The Three Religions (Daoism, Confucianism, Buddhism) and Nine Schools (Confucians, Daoists, Yin-Yang, Legalists, Logicians, Mohists, Political Strategists, Eclectics, Agriculturists); fig. People from all walks of life or diverse social backgrounds (often with a neutral or slightly derogatory tone, implying a mix of high and low status)]
Old Man Wu shifted his gaze back to the chessboard. The more he looked at the black pieces’ strategy, the more impressed he felt. He thought each move of the black pieces was extremely cunning, seemingly leaving a retreat for the white pieces, but once the white moved, the opponent only needed to shift one piece to instantly encircle and block them. A classic case of moving one step while seeing ten steps ahead. He himself couldn’t play chess like this.
Old Man Wu was immensely admiring and asked Yang Mingyi, who was also engrossed: “Who is this Brother Fang of yours? Introduce him to your grandfather.”
“He’s the one collecting money downstairs...” When Zuixiao Restaurant was busy, Shopkeeper Yang would also help collect money. Yang Mingyi momentarily didn’t know how to describe Fang Zichen. His mind abruptly flashed to Guaizai’s words, which to this day left him utterly speechless.
“Father looks very handsome when he works, the most good-looking.”
Old Man Wu saw him pause, then say: “The youngest, most handsome one.”
“...” Old Man Wu went downstairs to look for him. Only Shopkeeper Yang was at the front desk—Fang Zichen had long since gone out to have fun.
Yesterday, he received his monthly wages. Because his performance was good, plus the few taels for teaching Yang Mingyi, he got twelve taels in total. Fang Zichen went home and handed over half, exchanged for six kisses from Zhao Ger, feeling wonderful. This morning when he went out, he stuffed all six taels into his pocket.
He was going to spend a huge sum of money to buy his son a horse.
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