Chapter Ninety-Three: I Am Simply Modest

At some point, Chu Dong had a cigarette dangling from his lips, barely touching them, bouncing with every step he took as if it might tumble off at any moment.

“Sir, smoking isn’t allowed while playing here, please…” A young attendant approached, gently trying to discourage him, but Chu Dong shot him a glare that sent the boy scurrying back before he could finish.

“Am I even smoking?” Chu Dong shouted, “Wait until I light it, then you can say something. Don’t mess with my mood!”

Chu Dong’s break sent no balls into the pockets, and he was in a foul mood. The attendant happened to catch him at the wrong moment; who else could he vent his frustration on?

“Mr. Chu, why waste your breath with a child? All right, all right,” Wang Dongliang played the peacemaker. “Go call your manager. Tell him I’m reserving the place.”

As he spoke, he dusted off his cue and surveyed the table. Only the yellow one stood alone; the rest were barely changed from the initial setup. It was a mystery how Chu Dong managed to make such a racket.

Wang Dongliang truly paid Chu Dong no mind. He’d fallen for billiards while studying in England, hiring a coach and even winning amateur championships. He was quite formidable. From Chu Dong’s clumsy posture, Wang Dongliang doubted he’d lose even if Chu Dong played with flair.

With a casual strike, Wang Dongliang scattered the balls thoroughly. He wasn’t trying to give Chu Dong an advantage; he simply felt he didn’t need to exert himself at all.

No balls fell; it was Chu Dong’s turn again.

“Brother Wang, your skills leave much to be desired,” Chu Dong sneered, picking faults. “If it were me, I’d have gone for the yellow one first—score what you can, no point wasting opportunities.”

Wang Dongliang ignored him, smiling faintly, letting Chu Dong’s words wash over him.

“I’m telling you, you really ought to learn from me.” Chu Dong lifted his cue, aiming for the white ball, sighting a number six just a few centimeters from the pocket. He sent it with a forceful stroke; a loud crack, and it dropped in. “Ha! Did you see that? That’s technique. You won’t hit a shot like that without years of practice.”

With one ball sunk, Chu Dong danced with delight as if it were a festival. Wang Dongliang remained unmoved. That shot was so easy anyone could make it; missing it would be harder than sinking it. He just kept his composure, lest he splash Chu Dong’s face with cologne.

“In my years of playing, defense here is difficult, but there’s an attacking line. Look, if I hit this, I’d leave you a shot—not ideal. So I should go for that one. Even if I miss, you’ll have trouble lining up your next play. Of course, my chances of missing are slim…” Chu Dong tapped the three and five balls with his cue, lecturing as if he were teaching a class, and Wang Dongliang was so exasperated his nostrils nearly smoked.

“Mr. Chu, please play. Otherwise, it’ll be lunchtime soon.” Wang Dongliang saw that if he didn’t interrupt, Chu Dong might talk until midnight.

“All right, all right. I just feel bad you’re losing so much money. I wanted you to learn something. No need to rush.” Chu Dong wouldn’t be swayed, continuing his spiel.

Wang Dongliang’s break had scattered the balls widely. The small balls were in much better positions than the big ones; Chu Dong had sunk a small one, and several others hovered near pockets. The big balls’ paths were nearly all blocked, save for the upper left pocket, where a black eight nestled close to Wang Dongliang’s eleven.

Chu Dong now aimed at the five ball he’d indicated earlier, squinting with one eye closed, taking his time. Perhaps he believed in the miracle of brute force, for this shot was even stronger than the last.

He sent the five flying past the pocket; it and the white ball ricocheted across the table, bumping into others and nudging those near the pockets even closer. The black eight drifted casually toward a pocket, and Wang Dongliang’s big balls crowded tightly around it.

Chu Dong scratched his head, embarrassed. “Damn, what’s wrong with this table? The cushions are too hard.”

It had been nearly ten minutes since Wang Dongliang’s last turn—not because Chu Dong played consecutively, but because he simply couldn’t stop talking.

Wang Dongliang studied his balls carefully. The situation was awkward: no direct lines to the pockets, not even rebounding opportunities. Either Chu Dong’s balls blocked the way, or the black eight barricaded the pocket. If he tried to hide the cue ball, the force would be hard to control; if he didn’t, Chu Dong’s balls sat in perfect positions, and even a player like Chu Dong could clear them in one stroke.

His brow furrowed deeply; Wang Dongliang was at a loss. Whenever he thought he had a plan, Chu Dong chimed in, “Tap lightly here, hit this, pass the ten, then the thirteen, you’ll have it. Use less force; too much and it’ll fly.”

Wang Dongliang was furious. Earlier, Chu Dong had lectured him for half a day over one comment, and now he wouldn’t shut up.

“Mr. Chu, why don’t you have a smoke and rest? Your turn’s coming soon.” Wang Dongliang finally tried to negotiate.

“Sure, sure. Take your time, I’m in no hurry.” Chu Dong actually sat quietly to the side.

Now, Wang Dongliang couldn’t remember the route he’d just thought up. With Chu Dong silent, he felt unsettled; he couldn’t very well call him back after sending him away. The more he thought, the more confused he became, so he fired off a powerful shot, scattering his balls again.

As the balls rolled, Wang Dongliang smacked his forehead. “Damn, what kind of shot was that?”

Chu Dong’s small balls had been well-positioned, but the black eight was surrounded by Wang Dongliang’s balls. Even if Chu Dong cleared his small balls, he’d have no shot at the eight, likely committing a foul and giving Wang Dongliang a free ball. If Wang Dongliang played carefully, forcing Chu Dong into fouls, with Chu Dong’s poor technique, there was no way he’d win. But Chu Dong’s chatter had left his mind blank, and he hadn’t thought of that, so he regretted it deeply.

“Brother Wang, honestly, I feel bad for you. I wanted to tell you, but you stopped me. Who’d have thought you’d play exactly like that? Maybe we should forget the bet, tear up the contract, and I won’t tell anyone.” Chu Dong approached, cue in hand, as if sincerely advising Wang Dongliang.

“Brother Liang, I—” Tian Bing sensed trouble and started to speak, but Wang Dongliang raised his hand to silence him.

“No. We continue.” Wang Dongliang was resolute. He’d finally hooked Chu Dong; even if Chu Dong lucked out and won, he wouldn’t be so lucky next round. He wouldn’t give up easily.

“Sigh.”

Chu Dong was regretful. If Wang Dongliang wouldn’t listen, he wouldn’t spare him any face, taking ages to aim each shot and hesitating before every strike. Yet, the balls kept dropping, thanks to Wang Dongliang’s careless break.

Chu Dong cleared his small balls. The cue ball was still some distance from the black eight, but he paused, beckoning Wang Dongliang.

“Brother Wang, this shot is simply too easy. Can I request to skip it?”

“We’ve come this far; you might as well finish it. It’s no trouble at all,” Wang Dongliang refused, especially with large stakes riding on the outcome. Even if there weren’t, Chu Dong’s rustic style didn’t guarantee the shot would go in.

“If you insist, I’ll play. But at my place, shots like this are always skipped.” Chu Dong, never silent, bent down, set his hand, and gently pushed the cue.

The white ball rolled slowly toward the black eight, barely touching it, making almost no sound, but the eight was right at the pocket’s edge. It barely moved and dropped in.

Wang Dongliang didn’t dare breathe, afraid even a puff might blow the eight in prematurely. But the seemingly sturdy eight finally fell.

Chu Dong wiped his forehead as if sweating. “Damn, that scared me. If I’d missed it, I’d have let down my reputation as ‘Cue God.’”

“Cue God?” Wang Dongliang was furious. “You’re more like ‘God of Bad Luck.’”

The attendant reset the balls, now too intimidated by Chu Dong’s earlier outburst to speak, and withdrew. Wang Dongliang, gentlemanly, invited Chu Dong to break.

“Is it still my turn?” Chu Dong asked, feigning confusion.

“Go ahead. Winner breaks,” Wang Dongliang said, barely containing his impatience.

“Alright!” Chu Dong’s cigarette still dangled from his lips as he prepared to break, advising Wang Dongliang, “I really am skilled, just usually keep a low profile. Maybe we should call it off—don’t want to bully you.”

“Just break,” Wang Dongliang waved him on.

“Here goes!” Chu Dong shouted like thunder, sending the cue forward. This break was nothing like the last; the balls scattered, with the small yellow one, orange five, and big eleven all dropping into pockets.

“Now that’s skill—not rusty at all,” Chu Dong shamelessly praised himself. “The four should be a reverse shot, then set up for the three.”

The ball went in; the cue ball struck the four and rolled back about two feet. Chu Dong continued, “Left spin, bounce off one rail, come back for the two.”

The ball dropped; the cue ball, as Chu Dong predicted, moved near the two.

“Cue ball follows, arrives here,” Chu Dong pointed at a spot on the table. “Perfect for the six.”

The ball dropped, and the cue ball landed precisely where Chu Dong had indicated, angle and force just right.

“The two is easy, but the six…” Chu Dong examined the six. “Hmm, can rebound.”

The ball dropped, stopping near the six.

“Side spin, right English, six into the corner…”

“Seven, double bank into the side pocket…”

Only the black eight remained. Chu Dong looked up and flashed a smile at the dumbstruck Wang Dongliang. “Told you, I’m just low-key.”

Eight sank!