Chapter 38: The Constable's Might

People of all sorts came up to greet him with beaming smiles, and Zhao Zhentang responded to each one, though his manner was clearly tinged with a certain reserve.

Everyone who greeted Zhao Zhentang would always politely praise Zhao Jin, saying how adorable he was, how he was sure to be very successful when he grew up, and so on. Zhao Jin kept a normal expression on the surface, but inwardly he was quite shocked. He knew this attitude very well—it was exactly how people used to act around leaders and superiors in his past life.

His own father was merely a runner at the prefectural magistrate's yamen, with a side job as an executioner. How could he command such an air of authority and power? Zhao Jin scratched his head, thinking that he might have been mistaken in viewing his father as the equivalent of a beat cop from that other life.

They made their way south amid these greetings. Xuzhou was rich in the north and poor in the south. Once they reached the southern part of the city, there were hardly any decent houses to be seen; everything was dilapidated. If it weren't winter, the roads would probably have been impassable. Filthy water frozen into ice was everywhere, and even so, an unpleasant stench hung in the air.

Seeing Zhao Jin frown with disgust, Zhao Zhentang couldn't help but laugh. "Being cooped up at home all this time, you know nothing and have seen nothing. It's made you soft and pampered. Can't even stand the sight of this? This is nothing. When you go to the Xuzhou Guard garrison, you won't even be able to set foot on the ground."

Could the Xuzhou Guard garrison be even more rundown? Zhao Jin wondered. It was true that in this life, he hadn't been to many places since childhood, confined to the area around his home.

Although the Xuzhou city of this era couldn't compare to the one from his previous life, walking from the North Gate to the south of the city, while having to deal with so many people greeting them along the way, still took the father and son over half an hour to reach the Black Tiger Temple.

The so-called Black Tiger God of Wealth Temple was a small courtyard house. A modest plaque hung outside. It might have been impressive once, but now the lacquer had peeled off, making the characters "Black Tiger God of Wealth Temple" look terribly unsightly. The walls had apparently been soaked by water several times and had collapsed more than once, leaving them crooked and misshapen. The door panels had long since been replaced, just a few planks haphazardly nailed together and hung on the frame to serve as a door. A young man in a patched cotton coat stood in front.

Compared to the crowded, chaotic residential area before it, there was an open space in front of the Black Tiger God of Wealth Temple. A few small hawkers lingered listlessly at the edges, completely indifferent to the garbage and filthier things covering the ground.

Whether it was the young man or the hawkers, they all visibly tensed up at the sight of a yamen runner. Zhao Zhentang led Zhao Jin straight toward the courtyard house.

"What business do you have, sir?" The young man, seeing Zhao Zhentang approach, quickly bowed and scraped with an ingratiating smile.

That young man must be the lookout, Zhao Jin thought to himself, wondering how his father would handle this.

The smile had already vanished from Zhao Zhentang's face. He waved his hand dismissively. "Get lost. I'm looking for Dung Ball."

Without waiting for the young man's reaction, he kicked open the ajar wicker gate and strode into the courtyard.

The young man froze, but dared not make a sound. He hurriedly followed them in with a fawning smile. Zhao Jin was puzzled—where had this "Dung Ball" suddenly come from?

The smell in the courtyard was even worse. The corners were covered with stains from people relieving themselves on the spot. In one corner, a crudely carved statue of a black tiger could be seen, also battered and broken. This temple was probably dedicated to Marshal Zhao Gongming's mount, which could be loosely connected to the God of Wealth.

The temple itself consisted of three brick rooms, looking very rundown. But one couldn't look down on it too much; along the roads in this southern district, the houses were all made of adobe and stone, even worse than this little temple.

Filthy and dilapidated as it looked outside, one could sense a lively atmosphere within. A thick cotton curtain hung over the temple door, and a clamor of voices came from inside.

"Bet, bet now! Don't regret it once the dice land!"

"It's open, it's open!"

It was actually a gambling den. Zhao Zhentang held Zhao Jin with one hand and lifted the curtain with the other.

As the curtain lifted, a wave of hot air hit them, along with a foul stench—body odor and all sorts of indescribable smells. But no one inside cared; they were gathered around two tables, gambling with feverish excitement.

Zhao Zhentang frowned and swept his gaze around, then bellowed, "Where's Dung Ball?"

The room fell abruptly silent. Everyone's eyes turned toward one spot—a large man standing between the two tables with his back to the Zhao father and son.

One look at the man's appearance, and Zhao Jin understood why he was called "Dung Ball." The big man was bald, but his scalp wasn't shiny like others; it was a filthy, dull yellow. No wonder he had that nickname. Come to think of it, Dung Ball and Bronze Head really were quite similar in color.

"Who the hell's calling me that? Got a death wish?" The big man roared, turning around.

Zhao Jin took a step back. He noticed two young men in the room with shifty expressions, clearly in league with the big man. They were outnumbered, and he feared they might be at a disadvantage.

The big man called "Dung Ball" turned around. He was slightly shorter than Zhao Zhentang, with a huge protruding belly. He wore a Daoist robe, the attire of a respectable man, but it was so filthy it looked disgraceful, sleeves rolled up and hem tucked into his waist. His face was covered in brutish flesh, a vicious sight.

Zhao Jin grew even more nervous, but Zhao Zhentang stood there utterly unmoved. "What did you just say with that foul mouth of yours?" he said coldly.

The moment he saw it was Zhao Zhentang, the big man's fierce, glowering expression instantly transformed into a fawning grin. He slapped his own cheek and bowed. "So it's Lord Zhao who's come. This lowly one has a foul mouth, a foul mouth. I'll slap it, slap it. Please don't take offense, Lord Zhao."

Zhao Jin's eyes widened. He hadn't expected this man to be so terrified of his father. No wonder the thug's "Bronze Head" became "Dung Ball" in Zhao Zhentang's mouth.

Before anything else could be said, the big man grinned obsequiously. "It's noisy and dirty out here. Please, Lord Zhao, come sit inside."

Zhao Zhentang gave a grunt, as if the man's groveling and fawning were only to be expected. He let the man lead the way into the inner room.

The so-called inner room was just a partitioned section of the temple's three rooms. Inside was a heated brick bed, messy and chaotic, smelling no better than outside, with an added mix of rouge, powder, and a musky odor.

The big man hastily cleared a space on the edge of the bed and invited Zhao Zhentang to sit, then hollered for someone outside to bring tea. After lowering the cotton curtain to the partition, he pulled a paper packet from his bosom and said with a fawning smile, "Lord Zhao rarely visits this lowly one's place. You've worked hard."

Zhao Zhentang took the paper packet, squeezed it, and set it beside him. "I didn't come here for this today," he said brashly. "This is my son."

At this introduction, the big man immediately bowed toward Zhao Jin. "The young master looks truly spirited," he said respectfully.

"One of your men gave my son trouble yesterday, and even said he'd come knocking on our door today. So today, I just wanted to come and see the heroes under your command, Dung Ball," Zhao Zhentang said with a sardonic smile.

Before Zhao Zhentang had even finished speaking, the big man's face went pale. His body actually began to tremble. He waved his hands frantically. "Lord Zhao, Lord Zhao, how is that possible? Even if this lowly one lost his mind, I wouldn't have the guts. I wouldn't dare, and my men would dare even less. My lord..."

"Five men yesterday. The one leading them had triangular eyes. The others called him Brother Hu," Zhao Jin spoke up. He knew it was his turn to talk now.

Hearing this, the big man froze. Zhao Zhentang, sitting on the brick bed, gave a cold laugh. "So they're not your men? Seems I've come to the wrong place. My apologies, then..."

Before he could finish, the big man dropped to his knees with a thud. His face crumpled in despair. "They really aren't my men! They're just a few good-for-nothings from around here. This lowly one has used them a few times, and they go around swaggering and cheating in my name. Lord Zhao, this lowly one will have them dragged here right now and explain everything to your face."

"Make it quick. I still have to report for roll call at the yamen," Zhao Zhentang said.

The big man acted as if he'd been granted a great pardon. He scrambled to his feet and rushed out. Through the curtain, they could hear him bellowing outside: "Go grab those worthless scoundrels like Chen Ergou! Go now! Use your knives if they won't come!"

Zhao Jin watched from the side, utterly dumbfounded. This "Dung Ball," this "Bronze Head," was a local ruffian and gang leader who ran his own gambling den and had plenty of men at his disposal. A local bully and thug like this was actually terrified of his father to such a degree. What on earth was going on?

As he was pondering this, Zhao Zhentang reached out and ruffled the top of his head. "You really have grown bolder, kid," he said teasingly. "Not even scared in a scene like this."