Yet I find myself unable to write a single word.

Anyone willing to spend a hundred bucks to enter a billiards tournament must have some skill. Most of the matches were fast-paced, and in just half an hour, the first round was over. The second round still relied on drawing lots, and only after this round would everyone’s numbers be written on the board, pairing them off for head-to-head matches all the way to the final tier.

As mentioned before, Zhang Pa’s luck was extraordinary, almost defying belief. The first round’s three matches dragged on for over forty minutes, but the second round’s three matches were wrapped up in less than three minutes. In each game, as soon as he selected his shot, he’d find the eight-ball perched right on the pocket, his own ball conveniently beside it.

Faced with such situations, anyone would pass the shot, and Zhang Pa breezed through the games using this method. Then, proudly, he went off to watch Fatty’s match.

Fatty was in a dilemma—his opponent was the “big-bottomed woman” he’d mentioned earlier.

With a sultry beauty swaying before his eyes, Fatty almost lost interest in potting balls; he just wanted to watch her play, leaving himself content to spectate.

To be fair, the woman was indeed alluring. Just imagine: tight pants, leaning low over the table to line up shots, making her curves all the more pronounced. Fatty’s attention was nowhere near the pool table.

Seeing this, Zhang Pa walked over and sighed, “Wipe your drool.”

Distracted, Fatty still hadn’t finished the first game; only two balls remained on the table—one the eight-ball, the other his opponent’s.

When Zhang Pa approached, Fatty asked, “Did you give up or surrender?”

“I won,” Zhang Pa replied. “You’re not good enough—you really should practice more.”

Fatty grumbled, “I ought to spit in your face. Who are you calling unskilled?”

Fatty actually had some ability, but the sultry woman wasn’t bad either. The real issue was Fatty’s constant distraction—either staring at her chest or her curves, unable to focus. So, his tournament ended in the second round.

After his loss, he was furious, cursing Zhang Pa. “Is there any justice? You make it to the third round and I can’t?”

“It’s a matter of skill,” Zhang Pa said.

“I’ll show you skill,” Fatty snapped, exasperated.

Zhang Pa asked, “Want me to get her number for you? You can take it home and admire it at your leisure.”

“You think you’re some kind of sissy?” Fatty sneered.

Zhang Pa replied, “Don’t you trust me? Or do you doubt your own charm?”

Fatty cleared his throat. “Well, if you put it that way, it sounds pretty logical.”

“Exactly—science at work. Hold on.” With that, Zhang Pa strode over to the sultry beauty, whispered a few words, then smiled and walked away.

When he returned, Fatty asked what he’d said.

Zhang Pa shot back, “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I asked if she wanted to buy a book. She said no.”

“That’s it?”

“What else?” Zhang Pa feigned surprise. “You old pervert, what were you thinking?”

Fatty, a bit dejected, said, “Let’s go.”

“Go? I have another round to play.”

“With your skill? What’s the point?” He looked around. “Have you seen Long Xiaole?”

“Haven’t seen him. Probably didn’t sign up. He’s got money and he’s a pro—why bother with this crowd?” Zhang Pa replied.

“True.” Fatty said, “Let me see how you get swept out three-nil.”

Once again, Zhang Pa’s luck was miraculous. In the third round, after losing the first two games, his opponent had a string of critical mistakes. Zhang Pa got multiple turns at the table—missed once, tried again; missed twice, tried yet again—and ended up winning.

The crowd was frustrated watching. How could someone at this level make it to the third round? Where was the justice? They played so well and got knocked out in the first round, while this guy advanced?

Because his play was so poor, he attracted the biggest audience, with many eliminated players seeking solace in Zhang Pa’s miraculous run.

His number went up on the board, and he marched into the next round. Fatty scratched his head in disbelief. “Does your scalp hurt?” Zhang Pa asked.

Fatty didn’t respond, just kept scratching.

Soon it was time for the fourth round. Zhang Pa’s luck was truly otherworldly. While his opponent was lining up a shot, a player at the neighboring table attempted a trick jump shot. Overpowered, the cue ball launched off the table and struck Zhang Pa’s opponent in the eye.

No need to play—the man was off to the hospital. Zhang Pa won by default.

Fatty was dumbfounded. He sidled up and whispered, “Do you know magic?”

Zhang Pa replied with pride, “I’m the Star of Literature incarnate. What’s a little magic to me?”

Now only sixteen players remained—among the best amateur eight-ball players in the provincial capital. Regardless of the final results, everyone would receive a certificate for making the top sixteen—little more than a token, since it came with no prize money.

After a short wait, the sixteen strongest entered to vie for the top eight.

Fatty gritted his teeth. “Let’s see how you win this time.”

Even though it was an amateur tournament, making the top sixteen meant you were at least as skilled as Fatty.

At this level, a single mistake might not cost you the match, nor would two. But three or four? Someone like Zhang Pa should have no chance.

By now, word had spread of Zhang Pa’s incredible luck, and a crowd gathered near his table. Whether they came to watch a joke or a magic act was anyone’s guess.

Of the sixteen, all but Zhang Pa had their own cues, including the two old-timers in vests. The big-bottomed woman who’d beaten Fatty was out, having lost last round.

The match began, and Zhang Pa faced one of the old-timers. The man was stern, never smiling, his gaze sharp and intense.

It was still best of five, and Zhang Pa broke first.

Luck is an unreasonable thing—just as some people get struck by lightning multiple times and survive, or fail at suicide thirty times and still live on.

Heaven never plays fair, so once again, Zhang Pa won. This time, his opponent, after breaking, was struck with sudden stomach pains and rushed to the restroom, only to slip and break his right hand. The worst part—he soiled himself in the fall.

Zhang Pa advanced, head held high, into the quarterfinals!

At this point, not just Fatty but the whole crowd was stunned. Was this guy born with a winner’s halo? People watched with suspicion—this was downright eerie.

Since the tournament began, Zhang Pa had hardly played—his first round was a tug-of-war; in the second and third, he rode his luck; in the fourth, his opponent’s eye was injured; in the fifth, his opponent broke his right hand. Would the next opponent get hurt as well?

The answer was no. Zhang Pa was no god—surely he couldn’t keep injuring his rivals. In the sixth round, his opponent didn’t get hurt, but was suddenly taken ill, giving the pool hall owner a fright and prompting an urgent trip to the hospital.

With the sixth round over, Zhang Pa was in the final four.

When his semifinal opponent was decided, the man looked at Zhang Pa—idle and unruffled in the distance—then at the trail of unlucky, injured contestants, and came over to ask, “Do you know how to curse people?”

Fatty echoed, “I want to know that too.”

Of course, Zhang Pa denied it, but his opponent’s gaze was odd—part anger, part regret.

Someone in the crowd jeered, “Great Sage, stop showing off your powers.”

Fatty joined in, “Seriously, do you know magic?”

Zhang Pa insisted, “It’s all coincidence. Pure coincidence.”

But does anyone really know what coincidence is? It’s when the same kind of event keeps happening, over and over. In the semifinal, his opponent got injured yet again.

This poor man, while chalking his cue—a little cube of blue chalk some call “gunpowder”—dropped it to the floor and it rolled under the table. Some players, a bit superstitious, must chalk their cue before every shot or they feel off. This guy seemed to be one of them, constantly chalking.

He bent down to retrieve it, and as we’ve all experienced, banged his head coming up—hard. He didn’t lose consciousness, but was dizzy for a long while, and when he tried to continue, someone noticed blood trickling down his hair, staining his shirt collar.

No need to play further. Zhang Pa won again.

That round, all he did was break, then watch his opponent’s misfortune. Once more, he advanced, striding into the finals.

By now, everyone in the pool hall was mystified—how could things be so coincidental? It had to be some kind of curse or voodoo, otherwise how could so many opponents end up in the hospital?

The guy eliminated by bad luck in the second round now counted himself lucky—better out early than in the hospital.

Fatty was at a loss. He’d originally said Zhang Pa would get some exposure and that would be it; participation was the point. Who could have imagined he’d participate all the way to the finals—and not even by skill? If word got out, would it be embarrassing or just hilarious?

He asked again, “Big bro, I’ll call you that—do you know magic?” Then added, “Master, take me as your disciple.”

Zhang Pa remained stern and silent for a long while before asking, “How can things be this coincidental?”

“Big bro, don’t be modest. This isn’t coincidence—it’s sorcery! Real sorcery!” Fatty exclaimed.

With a noncommittal “Oh,” Zhang Pa glanced toward another table, where the other semifinal was underway.

Those two were tied at one-all, just about to start the third game, but when they heard what was happening, they hesitated, both looking at Zhang Pa with suspicion.

How could they go on? Regardless of who won, whoever faced this “cursed” opponent in the finals risked a trip to the hospital.

One of them asked his opponent, “You got guts?”

“Uh… I guess?” came the uncertain reply.

“That’s good enough. You win.” He forfeited, sending his opponent straight to the final.

“You’re forfeiting? But you play better than I do…”

“I lose,” he stated, walking away from the match.