I hope this story, as it stands now, is still good.

The semifinals were supposed to be played in a best-of-seven format, but both matches ended swiftly, with the competitors resolving their games in no time at all. The organizers had estimated that the champion would not be decided until at least ten o'clock in the evening—after all, at the final stage, caution and meticulousness were necessary to secure victory, which could only lengthen the duration of the matches.

Yet, thanks to Zhang Pa’s bizarre methods of victory, the entire event wrapped up before half past seven, with only the final left to play.

The other finalist was a handsome young man, dressed in a bright and youthful style. He had the air of a television drama protagonist, albeit with slightly less striking features.

The host announced a fifteen-minute break, with the final scheduled to begin at half past seven.

By this point in the tournament, Zhang Pa finally had a seat and a bottle of water; at last, he could sit back and sip his drink in leisure, lost in thought.

The chubby friend beside him was still in utter disbelief: “What on earth is going on? What’s happening here?”

Zhang Pa glanced at the time. “We’ll take a cab home tonight.”

“Why?” asked the chubby one.

“I haven’t updated yet,” Zhang Pa muttered.

“Then you should just surrender,” suggested his friend.

“Why should I?” Zhang Pa retorted. “I’m about to win ten thousand yuan.”

Just then, the sunny young man returned, walking with deliberate caution and slowness. Having learned from the fates of those before him, he was determined to avoid any mishaps.

Anticipating every possible accident, he refused to drink any water, borrowed a vest from someone, stuffed talcum powder in his pocket, and was exceptionally careful even when picking up the cue.

“He’s terrified of you,” the chubby friend observed.

Zhang Pa protested his innocence. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You must have done something,” the other insisted. “Teach me, O legendary grandmaster.”

“Very well,” Zhang Pa replied. “Eat more soybeans and drink more water, keep at it for a hundred years, and once you’ve cultivated enough vital energy, you’ll be able to fly.”

The chubby one snorted, “If you ate soybeans for a hundred years, you could become Superman too.”

Zhang Pa pretended to sigh in sorrow, “This is a secret never passed down outside the sect. I’m risking everything to tell you—how could you not believe me?”

“I believe you, I absolutely do,” the chubby friend replied, but his eyes darted around like searchlights, scanning the crowd for pretty girls.

There were plenty of beauties present. Girls who liked billiards all had strong personalities; some sneered at the chubby one’s leering glances, others simply flipped him off.

He sighed in frustration. “These girls have no fear. They don’t even know who I am—one of the illustrious Thirteen Young Masters of Xingfu Alley—yet they dare insult me? It’s only because I’m so good-natured now; in the past, I’d have dragged them over for a good thrashing first.”

Zhang Pa asked, “I’ve always wondered, who exactly are the Thirteen Young Masters? I’ve never seen all of you together.”

“You’ll never see us all,” the chubby one replied, assuming the manner of an old hand. “Time flies, years pass like a shuttle...”

Zhang Pa interrupted, “Congratulations, you’re about to become the first person to get beaten up for reciting poetry.”

“Who’d dare beat me up?” his friend retorted. “Let them try—I’ll destroy them.”

Zhang Pa cracked his knuckles with a loud, crisp pop. “Whom exactly are you going to destroy?”

“Oh, great hero Zhang, we’re on the same team—you can’t do this to me.” The chubby one quickly got up and put some distance between them.

Thus, the conversation was derailed, and the mystery of the Thirteen Young Masters remained unsolved.

After a while, the host announced the start of the final, following professional rules to determine who would break first.

After one shot, the crowd erupted in laughter.

To determine the order, each player shoots a cue ball toward the far end of the table, letting it rebound; whoever’s ball stops closest to the starting line gets to break. Zhang Pa knew the rules, but after his shot, the cue ball rebounded off course and struck the carefully racked object balls with a loud smack…

To fail even at a straight rebound—how could someone of this level make it to the finals? Many defeated players were filled with resentment. Why him, and not me? Why didn’t I have his ridiculous luck, with all my opponents getting injured…

Right—his opponent tonight was still unscathed, wasn’t he?

Many eyes turned to the sunny young man.

He broke first. This guy was cautious to the extreme—even though the carpet provided a solid footing, he moved with exaggerated care, and set up his cue slowly and methodically.

He faced Zhang Pa as if facing a formidable foe, opting for a purely defensive break.

When Zhang Pa’s turn came, he couldn’t find a clear shot, so he simply smashed the cue ball at random, sending an object ball careening off the cushion and into a corner pocket.

“Was that a fluke?” the chubby friend called out.

Zhang Pa snapped, “Boss, throw him out!”

The chubby one quickly protested, “We’re on the same side!”

Having chosen his group of balls, Zhang Pa continued. Unfortunately, the rest of his object balls, like the first, had no clear paths to the pockets.

A normal player in this situation would play it safe, but Zhang Pa, blessed with preternatural luck, would never play defensively. He picked another ball at random and blasted it with all his might. Balls scattered everywhere; the one he struck rebounded three times, crashed into two others, and—miraculously—dropped into a pocket.

The odds of such a shot succeeding were astronomically low; even a world-class player couldn’t calculate that trajectory. It was, without a doubt, pure luck.

Still, a pocketed ball means a win. The crowd’s focus shifted: how many balls could Zhang Pa fluke into the pockets in a row?

The next shot required no luck. The previous scatter had left several balls near the pockets, and Zhang Pa methodically sank them one after another.

Incredibly, he pocketed five consecutive balls like a true master.

With the easy shots gone, only two difficult ones remained. He circled the table, mimicking the mannerisms of expert players facing tricky shots.

But Zhang Pa wasn’t an expert; even if he circled the table for a year, he’d never figure out the right angles. So, he went back to slamming the balls—this wasn’t a matter of preference, just necessity. With skills too poor for defense, his only tactic was brute force and luck. Maybe he’d get lucky again.

He struck hard. The object ball rolled across the table, struck the eight-ball, which drifted towards the middle pocket. The cue ball rebounded, hit the eight-ball again, changing its trajectory—and the eight-ball rolled straight into the middle pocket.

Anyone who’s played billiards knows that lucky shots like this are common enough—but to see them in a final, and to see someone rely on luck shot after shot, was extraordinary.

In this game, the genuinely skilled and handsome competitor had only taken the break; the rest was Zhang Pa’s one-man show.

After this win, people began to look at Zhang Pa differently. Was he really a master in disguise, hiding his true strength?

In the next game, Zhang Pa broke hard and, miraculously, sank another ball…

The chubby friend was overjoyed, filming from the very start. At this rate, even Steve Davis would be left speechless.

In this round, the real expert never got a chance to play. Zhang Pa’s strategy was simple: always aim for the eight-ball, no matter what. If luck let him sink it, he’d win. He did, and took another game.

By now, everyone was at a loss for words. This man must know magic, or perhaps have telekinetic powers, able to guide the balls by will alone.

The third game began. The handsome young man stepped up, thought long and hard, and decided to try Zhang Pa’s approach: a powerful, lucky break.

He sank a ball—unfortunately, it was the cue ball.

Zhang Pa took the table, placed the cue ball as he liked, and easily won the third game.

Next, the fourth game. Victory here would mean the championship.

The result was predictable, though not without a few twists and turns.

As usual, Zhang Pa broke hard, but failed to sink a ball. The sunny young man finally had a chance to demonstrate his skill, giving Zhang Pa a real lesson in positioning, precision, and control. In seven flawless, precise shots, he sank seven balls.

Each shot was perfect, with the cue ball always ending up in the right spot. If he could sink the eight-ball, it would have been a masterful game. Alas, he missed.

The eight-ball was a straight shot—the kind every billiards enthusiast loves to practice. It’s called a “bullet”: a clean, powerful shot, the ball streaking into the pocket with a satisfying bang.

He left the cue ball perfectly positioned for this shot. He struck it with great accuracy; the eight-ball shot out, made that wonderful sound—only to hit the far edge of the pocket, bounce off with a smack, and roll back out.

Such is luck. Like a basketball shot that circles the rim and pops out, there’s no explaining it.

Because of this bad luck, the sunny young man’s flawless game was marred, and Zhang Pa stepped up.

Why call the young man a master? Because not only had he pocketed his own seven balls, he’d sent all of Zhang Pa’s seven balls to the cushions, each one hugging the rail.

Not only Zhang Pa’s seven, but even the eight-ball, now resting by the cushion, along with the rest. Excluding the cue ball at center table, the eight other balls were all stuck to the rails—nearly impossible shots.

But did Zhang Pa care? Blessed with supernatural luck, he simply glanced at the layout and shot.

Extraordinary luck—worth repeating three times. Zhang Pa demonstrated it eight times in a row, firing eight “bullets” at the cushions, each rebounding into the opposite pocket. Eight balls, eight rebounds, eight clean pockets.

At this point, Zhang Pa exuded utter confidence. Perhaps he’d simply given up on aiming, deciding that if he couldn’t hit his mark, he might as well shoot boldly and at least look good.

All eight balls dropped in cleanly, without exception. With that, the match was over.

Though his earlier matches had been rough to watch, in the final, Zhang Pa relied on outrageous luck to perform spectacular feats and achieve a perfect display—so perfect that people began to suspect he was secretly a master, pretending to be a fool.

Whatever the case, the final was worth watching, and Zhang Pa won. For once, the tournament hadn’t devolved into farce.

After a short wait, the host announced the tournament’s end, but the prize money would be distributed the next day, or after a longer wait, as the billiard hall owner had gone to the hospital.

Hearing that the money wouldn’t be paid until tomorrow, Zhang Pa grabbed his chubby friend and dashed out, hailing a cab home.

On the ride, the chubby one was still indignant. “With your pathetic skills, how on earth did you win first place?”

“Say what you want,” Zhang Pa replied. “No matter what you say, I’m still first.”

Fine, you’re first. The chubby friend was so frustrated he was practically sighing like the heroine of a romance drama all the way home.