What I imagined the underworld to be—surely it must be a world of clashing swords, bloodshed, and violent tempests.
But when I left my small town for the city, I realized… everything seemed no different from home.
At most, there were just more flashing lights, towering skyscrapers, and endless streams of traffic.
When I left, Sixth Master only gave me a hundred dollars for the road.
He wasn't poor—on the contrary, a man like him needed money to have so many women.
The reason he only gave me a hundred, was because he told me:
"Money, The underworld is full of it. Women, They're everywhere in the underworld.If you want them—go find them yourself."
But I had no idea where to look.
The place I lived was a border city in the north, where bathhouse culture thrived.
To survive, I took up a job—an attendant at Tianxiang Bathhouse, in charge of distributing supplies to the various bathing areas.
Of course, not including the women's section.
I did that for half a year.
That afternoon, as usual, I finished handing out supplies and was getting ready to clock out,
when Team Leader Hou Jun stopped me and told me to take a fruit platter to Manager Mei on the sixth floor.
Sister Mei was the manager of Tianxiang. She wasn't very old—maybe twenty-five or twenty-six.
I still remember the first time I saw her; I was genuinely stunned.
She was stunning—far more beautiful than the street girls Sixth Master used to frequent.
About 170 cm tall, with fair, delicate skin that looked like it would bruise from the lightest touch.
And those long, smooth, glowing legs of hers—any man who saw them would lose his mind.
I carried the fruit platter and knocked before entering. Sister Mei was playing mahjong in the suite next to her office.
Everyone at Tianxiang knew—Sister Mei loved her mahjong.
Whenever she had free time, she'd sneak upstairs for a few rounds.
Many men tried to cozy up to her by offering to play.
"Sister Mei, here's the fruit platter for you all."
I greeted her and was about to leave when—
"Wait…"
She called out to stop me.
Pointing to a teapot on the side, she said,
"Change the tea. Brew a fresh pot. Use that box of Mingqian Longjing under my desk."
I started boiling water.
While waiting, I stood not far away, watching them play.
They were playing Push-to-Win, a local favorite. One hundred yuan stakes.
Don't underestimate a hundred bucks—because of the scoring system, one round could easily mean tens of thousands in winnings or losses.
From where I stood, I could see Sister Mei and the player to her left.
Her lower player was also a woman, around the same age but with a completely different vibe.
This woman was attractive, too, but heavily made-up—layers of cosmetics, with a plunging black top that left half her cleavage in full view.
As I watched, something started to feel… off.
At first, I thought it was just a casual game among friends.
But I noticed something strange between the woman in black and the man sitting across from her.
They were working together. Cheating.
And their method? Not even subtle.
One of the most common tricks in the cheating playbook: hand signals.
That round, the woman in black was building a "Pure Double Pairs" hand—all of the same suit, all pairs.
She tucked her left thumb inward and rested her right hand at the end of the tile wall.
She stared straight at the tiles, not looking anywhere else.
But the man across kept glancing at her hands.
Half a round later, he discarded an 8-Bamboo. She immediately called a pung.
I thought—maybe it was coincidence?
But after the call, she resumed her signaling—left thumb tucked, right fingers slightly curled.
I guessed she wanted the 5-Bamboo.
Sure enough, two hands later, the man tossed a 5-Bamboo.
She called it, went into waiting, and quickly drew the winning tile herself.
Self-drawn. All Simples. Pure Suit. All Pairs. Total: 24 fans.
Each of the other three players had to pay her 2,400.
In reality, mahjong cheating has a hundred faces—some use conversation:
Like saying, "It's so hot today"—that hot might mean "Dots."
Or, "You look so bright today"—that "bright" might mean "Characters."
This kind of hand-signaling system is called the "Nine-Section Whip."
It uses the joints of each finger to pass coded signals to your partner.
Although I was sure they were cheating, I had no idea what their relationship with Sister Mei was—so I couldn't say a word.
After the tea was brewed, I was just about to leave.
The man opposite Sister Mei got a call.
It didn't last long. As soon as he hung up, he said:
"Sorry, I've gotta go. My kid's sick. We'll play next time. I lost over ten grand anyway…"
As soon as he left, the seductive woman in black started complaining:
"Sumei, what kind of guy did you invite? Game's not even over and he's bailing. 'Kid's sick'? Please. Can't take a loss and makes excuses. I was just getting into it!"
Sister Mei toyed with her tiles casually and said with a smile:
"My dear Huajie, all three of us lost, only you won. Still not satisfied? How much more do you want to win?"
The black-clad woman—Huajie—fanned the stack of cash in her hands and pouted:
"I haven't even made thirty grand yet. Sumei, come on, call someone else. I just wanna play mahjong tonight…"
Sister Mei looked helpless. She glanced at her phone contacts—not sure who to call at that hour.
Then she turned around, looked at me pouring tea, and asked:
"Chuliu, you know how to play mahjong, right? Come sit and play a few hands…"
I never expected Sister Mei to call on me—but I immediately replied:
"A little, yeah. But the stakes are way too high. I can't afford it…"
Truth is, even if I played without bringing a cent, I'd still win.
After all, more than ten years of sleight-of-hand training in cheating techniques doesn't go to waste.
But I had to say that—Sixth Master taught me this too:
A true con artist must always appear weak, keep a low profile, and hide his skill.
Only when your opponent completely underestimates you can you deliver the fatal blow.
"No worries," Sister Mei said, "If you lose, it's on me. If you win, it's yours. Come on."
She pulled out a wad of ten thousand yuan from her bag and tossed it onto the seat across.
"Sit there. Be our fourth."
I didn't refuse again and sat across from Sister Mei.
This was the year 2000—automatic mahjong tables weren't popular here yet. We still built hands manually.
And manual shuffling is a playground for con artists, big and small.
Of course, even with machines, cheating wasn't off the table.
As we shuffled, the flirtatious Huajie brushed my hand and teased:
"Oh my, this one's fresh. Tell Sister Hua—got a girlfriend yet? Still a virgin?"
She giggled as soon as she said it.
Sister Mei and the other man laughed along.
But I kept a straight face, stacking my tiles quietly.
When training in cheating techniques, Sixth Master's first rule was this:
When stacking tiles, you must not only memorize your own stack,
but also remember every tile exposed by others during their stack.
That way, even without cheating, your win rate stays sky-high.