Chapter 41: Qin-Han War Drums, Jinbao Gambling Den

Early autumn was crisp, the old street growing steadily colder.

The cold wind swept through the cobblestone lanes, pushing fallen leaves to spin and scrape against the ground with a rustling sound.

With a creaking, groaning rumble, a cart drawn by an ox slowly rolled in from the end of the street, its outline edged in golden morning light.

On the cart, three large drums were securely placed.

Each drum was over a meter wide, its black lacquer chipped and worn, the oxhide drumhead a dull yellow, ancient and heavy.

Though long passed down, they still radiated an undeniable aura, as if ready at any moment to unleash a thunderous beat.

Before they reached the Wendaoguan, Li Yan and the others came out to meet them.

Wang Daoxuan stepped forward, clasped his fists, and smiled: “Master He, thank you.”

The driver was an old man, his hair streaked gray and white, his face deeply lined, wearing a dog-skin hat, seated sideways on the cart pole smoking a clay pipe.

Seeing Wang Daoxuan, he quickly jumped down, first tugging the reins to halt the ox, then bowed and smiled: “Master, you’re too kind—you saved my whole family. These are just worldly things.”

After leaving the Zhang Family Martial Hall, Li Yan said he wanted to find Qin-Han war drums.

A fine drum, from material selection to crafting, drying, and lacquering, took months—there was no time. They had to borrow.

Luckily, Wang Daoxuan knew an old artisan who had lent them the drums.

The old man’s surname was He, also a man of the rivers and lakes.

Not all men of the rivers and lakes practiced martial arts or lived by the blade; many were petty thieves, swindlers, or relied on a single craft to travel the land.

This old He had formed a drum ensemble; whenever a shop opened or a major event occurred in Xianyang, they performed to liven the mood and earn tips.

Among the rivers and lakes, all performers—musicians, opera troupes, drum singers—belonged to the Liu Family Gate, which was how he knew Wang Daoxuan.

Upon hearing the news, he came personally to deliver the drums.

Li Yan also bowed in thanks and stepped forward to examine them.

The three war drums were old, yet perfectly preserved; though slightly worn, they remained fully functional and, with a bit of care, would once again command awe.

He gently touched them, growing more fond with each glance.

The Qin-Han war drums were a local drum tradition of Xianyang. Legend says an old Qin army flag-bearer, retired from service, passed the drum rhythms to villagers, who passed them down through generations.

When the First Emperor conquered the Six States and the Han King claimed the realm, they used these drums to stir the troops’ spirit.

The old artisan, seeing Li Yan’s expression, showed a flicker of satisfaction: “I can tell, young man, you’re a true drum lover. Giving them to you is fitting.”

Li Yan quickly waved his hands: “I’m only borrowing. These are your livelihood—I wouldn’t dare take them.”

“They’re useless to me now.”

The old man waved vaguely, stroking the drums with reluctance, sighing: “In my youth, I was arrogant, dreaming of becoming Drum King, famous across the land. Half my life wasted—I barely scraped by, never gave my family a thought.”

“I planned to pass them to my son, but he hated drums because of me—he didn’t want them at all, only dreamed of heading to Jinmen to make his fortune.”

“I’m old now. I’ll follow him a little longer, teach him the ways of the rivers and lakes, make up for my past failures.”

Wang Daoxuan frowned: “Master He, your health—”

The old man waved again, calm and composed: “Fallen leaves return to root—it’s not that important. Wherever I die, that’s home.”

“Besides, the First Emperor’s war drums shook Shenzhou. Where under the sun and moon isn’t my home?”

“The old man is truly detached.”

“Hah! Detached? I’ve just seen through it all…”

The old man waved, smiled, and turned away.

They couldn’t stop him; they forced some silver into his hands as travel money, watching until his hunched figure and the creaking cart vanished into the old street’s morning glow…

…………

Thud!

Inside the small courtyard, the drum sounded.

Li Yan lightly tapped it, feeling its vibration.

The arena day was set for the day after tomorrow; in such a short time, improvement through technique or experience was nearly impossible.

The only possibility was mastering the Divine Drum Cloud-Thunder Sound as soon as possible—at least enough to control the hidden force and unleash it at the critical moment.

The Cloud-Thunder Sound was simply a louder Thunder Sound.

The Qin-Han war drums carried the greatest momentum, making them ideal for cultivating the Divine Drum Cloud-Thunder Sound.

In the manual passed down by Master Zhou’s ancestors, the Divine Drums required special crafting—from oxhide to wooden drums, finally iron drums—each with its own method.

No time now. They’d have to use ordinary war drums.

Thinking of this, Li Yan assumed a horse stance, drew in his abdomen, moved his diaphragm up and down as if compressing it, inhaled deeply several times, then suddenly opened his mouth.

“Hong—!”

“Hong” (hong) was one of the six-character Buddhist-Daoist mantras, identical to the sound of thunder.

The Great Cloud-Thunder Sound was a secret Buddhist-Daoist method, cultivated using this sound as its foundation.

According to the text, some Buddhist masters trained this method during storms and thunder, impossible for those without exceptional talent.

But once mastered, the benefits were manifold.

It could shake the tendons and internal organs; when paired with the mantra, it purified the soul, cleared distractions, and refined the fist intent.

Yet the method had a flaw: it depended on unpredictable weather.

Thus, Zhou’s ancestor combined his craft with drumming—though not as mighty as true thunder, it allowed gradual, controllable training at any time.

As Li Yan uttered “Hong,” his palm struck the drumhead, vibrating it into a deep roar.

The courtyard erupted with a thunderous boom, formidable in power.

“Good!”

Sha Lifei immediately clapped loudly in praise.

“Good bird.”

Li Yan chuckled wryly, then shook his head thoughtfully: “This method is harder than I thought.”

According to the manual, the Divine Drum Cloud-Thunder Sound had three difficulties. First: timing—the drumbeat and mantra must resonate together.

Second: breath and vibration—you must become the drum itself to unleash the Cloud-Thunder Sound.

Third: control—the thunder is vast; master the balance or you’ll injure yourself.

The first step alone would take effort.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Li Yan struck again, carefully sensing the drumhead’s vibration.

Beside him, Sha Lifei grew bored, his eyes darting as he spoke: “Master, your food’s too plain. I’ll get some beef—we’ll feast these two days!”

Saying this, he turned and left the courtyard.

Li Yan was fully absorbed, frowning in deep thought, not hearing a word.

Soon, the courtyard echoed again with intermittent drumbeats.

…………

!.

Elsewhere, Sha Lifei exited the gate, circled the old alleyways, confirmed no surveillance or hidden marks, then strolled away casually.

He knew Xianyang well—he avoided busy streets, weaving through narrow alleys, choosing only quiet paths.

Soon, he reached West City’s Paifang Street.

Named for an ancient imperial archway, both sides of the street were lined with brothels, taverns, and gambling dens—the most lively and chaotic place in Xianyang.

This street lay farther south; northern and southern merchants passing through the ferry often spent their nights here, and knife-wielding mercenaries, living day to day, squandered most of their earnings here.

Thus, all manner of people gathered—dragons and snakes mixed together.

It was still early morning; most brothels, exhausted from the night’s labor, remained shuttered, their sweet, cloying perfume drifting from open windows.

Occasionally, thin-clad women combed their hair before their windows.

But Sha Lifei didn’t glance once.

He strode to a two-story building, looked up—the door stood wide open, two large, muscular men guarding it, bare-armed despite the cold, their wrists clad in leather-and-copper bracers.

Above the entrance, bold characters read: “Jinbao Gambling Den.”

Some crave beauty; some crave gambling.

In this vast Xianyang, from nobles to peddlers, from men of the rivers and lakes to officials, all had their addicts.

The street was still quiet, but inside the den, voices roared.

Not because patrons arrived early—but because they never left!

Whoosh!

As Sha Lifei stepped forward, a heavy curtain swung open, and a middle-aged man was shoved out, stumbling to the ground in a face-first fall.

Half his face was raw and bleeding, yet he ignored it, scrambled up, pleading: “Lend me more! Just a little more—I’ll pay double when I win back!”

“Young Master Lu.”

A white-clad man stepped out—bushy eyebrows, narrow eyes, smiling on his lips but icy in his gaze, unsettling to behold.

He crouched, patted the man’s cheek, sneering: “Calling you ‘Young Master’ is an honor. Listen to me—stop playing. You’ve nothing left to wager.”

The man’s eyes were bloodshot: “I… I still have my life!”

“Your life’s worthless.”

The white-clad man rose, gave a signal; the two guards dragged the man away and dumped him into the alley.

Then he spotted Sha Lifei standing afar, his face shifted instantly to a servile smile: “Oh! Master Sha, a rare guest! Come to try your luck today?”

“Get lost!”

Sha Lifei ignored him entirely and walked straight inside.

He knew the white-clothed man’s background—he was a seasoned cheat from the Hua Family Sect.

They had a cooperative relationship with the gambling den.

One was “ba huang”—observing people, targeting wealthy young masters, luring them into traps with smooth talk.

The other was “shi xing”—cheating to ruin opponents and drain them of all their wealth.

This gang even had organized members: “Yanzi” who used seduction, seasoned forgers and thieves known as Lao Rong, and even enforcers called Xinggua.

Anyone who suddenly came into wealth would be targeted by this gang.

This had been true since ancient times.

Their methods were countless—greed, beauty, family ties, friendship, pity… as long as you had a weakness, there was a trap designed for it; even the most hardened veterans could be fooled with a single misstep.

The young master of the Chunfeng Troupe had fallen for such a scheme.

Sha Lifei had no interest in them and shoved the man aside as he entered the gambling den.

Behind him, the white-clothed man grunted and followed close behind.

Inside the gambling hall, the air was thick and foul.

Lanterns hung above each gambling table, surrounded by gamblers—all disheveled, eyes bloodshot, faces ashen, flickering candlelight making them look like starving ghosts.

The stench of sweat and smoke made Sha Lifei stagger.

“Damn bastards…”

Sha Lifei cursed under his breath, then raised his head and bellowed: “The life-or-death match is in two days—does your Jinbao Gambling House have a bookie?”

His shout immediately drew many eyes.

“What are you yelling for?!”

The wooden door to a second-floor private room was kicked open.

Several black-clad men escorted a man out of the room.

The man was short, around thirty years old, but suffered from albinism—his skin pale with a reddish tinge, eyebrows and beard pure white, yet thickly grown.

He looked exactly like a white ape…

(End of Chapter)