The day my uncle-in-law kicked me out of the house, I knelt and kowtowed to my aunt, thanking her for raising me all these years. Then I turned to him and warned, "If you dare lay a hand on her again, I’ll kill you."
My name is Chu Liu. From the day I was born, my parents left me in my aunt’s care.
At first, my uncle-in-law treated me well—not because he liked me, but because my parents regularly sent him money as gratitude for looking after me.
The money was substantial, enough that whenever he got drunk, he’d stagger around, slurring his words with a pleased grin, calling me his “money tree.”
As a child, I didn’t know what my parents did for a living.
Until one summer day when I was six. My father came back—not walking, but carried.
On a stretcher.
His arms and legs were gone, and the white bandages wrapped around his body were soaked through with blood, the glaring red searing itself into my memory.
My father was barely alive, and with his last breath, he left me a single message:
“Live an ordinary life. Stay away from gambling. Always.”
That day, I cried every tear I had. And from that day on, I don’t think I ever truly smiled again.
After my father passed, my mother disappeared too.
With no more money coming in, my uncle-in-law’s attitude toward me worsened. Insults turned into beatings, and soon my older cousin, Li Dabiao, joined in as well.
I remember every detail. Over the years, the two of them slapped me 2,436 times, kicked me 3,487 times, and punched me 2,329 times.
And the whippings and beatings with sticks? Another 336 times.
If it hadn’t been for my aunt protecting me, I think they might have killed me by now.
I hated them. I remembered everything. I bore grudges.
If I didn’t, why would I keep such meticulous count?
Back then, I didn’t know how to fight back. I didn’t even dare. But I did learn one thing—how to endure.
When they threw me out, I wasn’t left homeless. Instead, I found my way to Liu Ye.
That wasn’t his real name. He never told me what it was.
He said I should call him Liu Ye because my name was Chu Liu.
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He came to our small town the year after my father died.
When we first met, he introduced himself as the greatest magician in the world and offered to teach me everything he knew.
His “magic” was indeed extraordinary. Cards, mahjong tiles, dice, and dominos would dance in his hands—appearing, disappearing, multiplying, and vanishing like ghosts.
And so, at the age of seven, I began learning what Liu Ye called his “magic.”
Liu Ye was the freest man I’d ever met. His days were spent supervising my practice, drinking, and indulging in women.
He had a peculiar obsession with women. Even in his sixties, his nights were never quiet.
Once, he even brought a woman to me—a girl of eighteen or nineteen, her plump face caked in thick makeup.
She put on a fake smile, sashayed before me, and began removing her clothes.
My response was a single word: “Get out.”
It’s not that I didn’t like women. I just didn’t like that kind of woman.
The woman I wanted had to be gentle, obedient, and loyal. She had to depend on me and see me as her king, like the “Big King” card in a deck.
Until one day, after a particularly passionate encounter, a woman lay in my arms, laughing softly. She told me, “You know, the Big King card actually represents the Joker.”
On my twentieth birthday, Liu Ye took me to Zui Xiang Lou, the finest restaurant in town.
In a private room with rustic charm, he puffed on his golden-threaded sandalwood pipe. His silver hair shimmered under the dim light, but his air remained carefree and unrestrained.
“Pour the wine,” he said.
From a blue-and-white porcelain jug, thirty-year-old Bamboo Leaf Green wine filled the green-glazed bowls, the liquid swirling and fragrant.
“Xiao Liu, how long have you been with me?” he asked, exhaling smoke.
“Thirteen years, two months, and twenty-two days.”
“What have I taught you?”
“Qian Shu—sleight of hand.”
(Qian Shu refers to the art of deception, typically used in gambling, where sleight-of-hand tricks are performed to cheat others and manipulate outcomes.)
“And what is Qian Shu?”
“With techniques that deceive the heavens and cross the seas, one achieves the impossible.”
Liu Ye nodded slightly, satisfied with my answer. He tapped out his pipe, raised his bowl, and said, “Drink this, and you’ll have graduated. From now on, you’re on your own.”
I knew this day would come, though I hadn’t expected it on my twentieth birthday.
The Bamboo Leaf Green burned as it slid down my throat, fire spreading from my stomach to my head.
After I set the bowl down, Liu Ye spoke again.
“Xiao Liu, remember this: You’ve learned Qian Shu, joined the Qian Men, and now walk the Lan Dao. From this moment, you’re no longer an ordinary person. You’re a Lan Dao Lao Qian—a master con artist of the gambling world.”
The Lan Dao refers to the world of gamblers and con artists. Once you gamble, you’re in the Lan Dao.
I thought of my father’s dying wish: to live an ordinary life and never touch gambling.
And now, here I was, a Lan Dao Lao Qian.
Fate, it seems, is a cruel joker.
“Xiao Liu, let me ask you: Do you want to be the master, or do you want to be the servant?”
“The master,” I replied.
Who would willingly choose to be the servant?
“Good. Since you want to be the master, I want you to use everything you’ve learned in the past thirteen years to make the Qian Men and Lan Dao know the name of Liu Ye—Chu Liu Ye—in three years!”
Three years? Could I do it?
I wasn’t sure.
Over the years, I’d accompanied Liu Ye to countless gambling dens and games, big and small, but I’d never played myself. I had no idea how good I really was.
Still, I nodded.
Liu Ye once told me that the hardest part of being a con artist isn’t the technique—it’s the mindset. The ability to perform flawlessly under countless eyes is the ultimate test.
“Alright then. From now on, you’ll walk the Qian Men and Lan Dao alone.”
Liu Ye’s tone was light, but his eyes betrayed his reluctance to let me go.
The moment you step outside, you enter the hidden world.