Chapter One: Qingyang County Town

Qingyang, also known as Qinyang, is the land south of the ancient Qin Prefecture, named for its position at the heart of the dragon's meridian. To the north of Qingyang County’s town, mountains encircle the land, their heads and tails lost to sight in the mist. Yet one peak stands apart, serving as the gateway to all these ranges—a sentinel at the southern and northern angle. At its foot, the Wei River weaves its way, much like a blue dragon threading through a gap, its tail raised to the heavens, its head lifted as if to swallow sun and moon. This mountain has, since ancient times, borne a formidable name: Dragon Rock.

Dragon Rock Mountain is steep and densely wooded, its narrow paths winding and crisscrossing through forest, so treacherous that there is a saying of “seven passes and eighteen bends.” Only by crossing this formidable peak does one truly enter the territory of Swallow Ridge, a land scattered with at least twenty villages, each facing a different mountain, drawing from different waters, and yet forming a patchwork of rustic harmony.

“Hey, Old Duan, are you squatting in the latrine or daydreaming about your wife? Could you hurry up?”

A middle-aged man rubbed his hands incessantly, his eyes never leaving the chessboard before him. His large, wind-catching ears quivered slightly, flushed with excitement.

But the man across from him, called Old Duan, paid him no heed, clutching a chess piece tightly and hesitating endlessly over his next move.

The middle-aged man rolled his eyes, well acquainted by now with Old Duan’s ways. He stretched his legs and rose in a great yawn, surveying their surroundings as he muttered to himself.

“This godforsaken place—one day here is one too many.”

On a patch of land barely three acres square stood a gray-brick building. The surrounding wall still bore, in faded paint, a few bold characters from days past, its surface mottled and peeling, the very image of a decrepit warehouse.

The iron doors to the warehouse were locked tight, a large, rusted padlock securing them. Two yellowed seals had been pasted across the doors, their edges curling with age, the inscription just discernible: “Qingyang County Fertilizer Plant, June 1973.”

This warehouse stood far from the main plant, its back to Dragon Rock Mountain, isolated at the foot of the hill, with not a soul in sight for miles around.

“Director Liu, this is the sixty-third time you’ve said that today. That’s five more than yesterday’s fifty-eight. But to be fair, if you hadn’t been so upright back then, you wouldn’t have...”

Director Liu’s eyes bulged, his hands planted on his hips, grinding his teeth as he cursed inwardly.

“Spare me! The whole plant knows about my so-called integrity, but you pretend ignorance. Was it uprightness? Who wants to be dumped in this godforsaken backwater, saddled with the empty title of warehouse director, babysitting a pile of obsolete machine parts? They call it ‘safeguarding state assets,’ but it’s just because I lack connections. I got shunted to this wretched post. Only someone like you would actually volunteer for this.”

“Hey, just play your move, enough chatter.” Director Liu’s ears twitched with annoyance as he waved for Old Duan to continue.

Old Duan shrugged in resignation and, finally, placed his piece.

“I knew you’d play that. Paired horse leap, chained lock—checkmate. You’ve lost!”

Old Duan stared, dumbfounded, then quickly reached to shield the board.

“Wait, that doesn’t count. My hand slipped just now…”

“No excuses. A loss is a loss. Remember, you owe me another pack of Red Mantian this month.”

Director Liu, now in high spirits, wore a look of triumph. He produced a small red notebook and recorded the debt. The pages were already crowded with crooked tally marks.

Old Duan, seeing this, could only withdraw his hand in embarrassment—the price of losing was to be paid.

Director Liu shook the notebook, basking in his victory. “Old Duan, a clear account keeps brothers true. When your wages come in, you’d better square up.”

“All right, all right, must you nag about this every day?” Old Duan replied, his impatience clear, though his gaze lingered on the chessboard, still brooding over his defeat.

To Director Liu, Old Duan was the perfect mark—the legendary King of Bad Chess. Every month, a good half of Old Duan’s wages found their way into Liu’s pocket. Old Duan’s unique talent was to stumble in the same place over and over, never learning from his losses. In his forties, without family or background, he was the sort who could vanish with no one the wiser. No parents above, no wife or child below—if he was fed, his whole family had eaten. But once a chessboard came into view, he was powerless to resist.

Unlike Director Liu, Old Duan had actively requested this posting in the warehouse. The factory director, delighted, approved it on the spot and even praised Old Duan at a staff meeting for his self-sacrifice, urging others to learn from his example. At first, Director Liu had asked why he’d willingly come to this wasteland. Old Duan, poring over a chess manual, replied with cryptic gravity: “This place is peaceful—a rare haven for those devoted to the Way of Chess.” At first, Director Liu refused to play with him, thinking him a master. But, worn down over time, he finally relented—he could only avoid him for so long.

After their first game, Director Liu’s assessment of Old Duan’s skill was concise.

“Bah!”

Or, in four words: “What utter rubbish?!”

And, in eight: “….”

The tedious days repeated themselves, and even the birds in the yard grew lazy, their songs losing all melody.

On rest days, Director Liu became a new man—vigorously bounding about, his hair shining, he’d mount his heavy old bicycle and pedal with the energy of a man half his age. Had he not been liberated, he’d have made a fine enforcer for the Black Shirts.

Old Duan would often watch Liu’s retreating figure and sigh to himself, “If not for liberation, with that look, it’d be a shame if he didn’t become a traitor.”

Director Liu, gazing at the distant sky, felt none of the poetic melancholy of “the sun setting so beautifully near dusk.” Even the finest scenery grows dull with time—none could compare to the widow Chen from the filling workshop. Thinking of her, Director Liu drifted into reminiscence: she had once been a formidable hand under his command, famous for both her figure and her voice. In the entire plant, no one could out-shout her when it came to cursing in the workshops. Of course, he now had under him another “formidable” subordinate—Old Duan, the King of Bad Chess, who had perfected the art of losing, his notoriety unmatched.

While Director Liu was thus lost in thought, Old Duan, oblivious to danger, brought the chessboard right up to him.

“Come on, I’ve found a way to break your defense. Let’s play again…”

“Get lost!”

The roar echoed through the valley, startling birds from the trees.

“Stop!” A line of black-clad figures halted on the forest path. At their head was a wiry, lean old man in a black shirt. He stared thoughtfully at the sudden flight of birds from the forest ahead.