Chapter 044: The Brutal Game of Cuju

Cuju was divided into two types: one was direct confrontation, with twelve players on each side, where scoring was achieved by shooting the ball into the opponent’s goal. The other was indirect confrontation, with the goal positioned in the center, and both sides standing on either side of it, scoring by shooting the ball through the goal. Direct confrontation demanded greater physical strength and was prone to accidents, while indirect confrontation was less strenuous and safer, allowing for more skillful and entertaining play.

Before the Tang dynasty, direct confrontation was predominant; but starting in the Tang, many began to prefer the indirect form.

Looking at the robust physiques of Li Zaixing and his companions, Wang Zhun naturally chose indirect confrontation.

No sooner had Wang Zhun spoken than Li Zaixing burst out laughing: “Thirteenth Young Master, you look tall and strong, like a real man. Why are you so weak, like a woman? Cuju is a skill soldiers practice in the army, testing who is stronger. If you fear collisions, why play at all? If you lack stamina, you might as well not compete—I doubt you’d last long even if you made it to the end, leaving Miss Miao hanging in midair, neither here nor there. How dull that would be.”

Li Zaixing’s words were crude, even vulgar. But Pingkang Lane was a famous place of pleasure, and anyone coming here would not be shocked by such talk. The crowd on the sidelines was made up of Yang family courtesans, with the renowned sisters Yang Laier and Yang Miaoer leading the cheers. There was nothing too brazen for their ears. So, as Li Zaixing spoke, only Yang Miaoer blushed, while the rest burst into laughter.

Wang Zhun’s face turned livid. To be mocked in front of so many for lacking stamina, unable to satisfy Yang Miaoer in bed, was a grave humiliation. No man could endure it, least of all a proud and competitive rake like him.

“Afraid of you?” Wang Zhun roared furiously. “I’ll say this first: direct confrontation is fine, but if anyone gets hurt, don’t blame others.”

Hearing this, Wei Yingwu nearly laughed aloud. Wang Zhun had left early yesterday and clearly hadn’t heard about Li Zaixing’s fight at Zheng Jujun’s house, nor about the killing outside the city. Now he wanted to play dirty against Li Zaixing—like an old man hanging himself, tired of living. But that suited him fine; following Li Zaixing, he was sure Wang Zhun would get what he deserved. Who here was more formidable than Li Zaixing in a fight? And Li Zaixing still had Xie Guanglong at his side.

The teams agreed, and the match began.

Wang Zhun, bent on revenge, fixed his gaze on Li Zaixing, marking him closely. Li Zaixing, however, refused to engage directly. Using agile footwork, he repeatedly evaded Wang Zhun’s attempts to block him; even when Wang Zhun tried to get close, Li Zaixing avoided him from afar, making it clear he wanted no close contact.

Seeing this, Wang Zhun grew more confident, shouting for his teammates to pass him the ball. With no one blocking him, he scored three goals in succession, drawing cheers from the crowd. Arms raised, surrounded by his teammates, he circled the field to celebrate. Especially when passing in front of Yang Miaoer, he puffed out his chest, striking heroic poses.

Yang Miaoer, however, was uneasy. Things were getting out of her control. Initially, Wei Yingwu and Li Zaixing had fought for her favor, but now Wang Zhun had joined in. Though the scene was lively, it was not what she had hoped for.

She repeatedly signaled to Wei Yingwu and Li Zaixing, urging them to strengthen their defense and organize a counterattack. Li Zaixing remained indifferent, but Wei Yingwu grew anxious. He ran to Li Zaixing, panting: “Brother Li, we can’t let them dominate us.”

“What do you suggest?” Li Zaixing asked, watching Wang Zhun’s triumphant show from afar.

“We need to counterattack. We can’t let Miss Miaoer be claimed by this boor.” Wei Yingwu, forgetting his original purpose, was determined to stop Wang Zhun from reaching Yang Miaoer’s bed. “Take him down, and I, Wei San, will owe you a favor.”

“Alright.” Li Zaixing whispered a few words into Wei Yingwu’s ear, then ran to Wang Xun and said solemnly: “Eleventh Young Master, the task of organizing the attack is yours.”

Wang Xun hesitated: “What if someone gets hurt?”

“The pitch is a battlefield; injuries are inevitable,” Li Zaixing replied. “Didn’t we say just now? If someone gets hurt, it’s only because their skill is lacking. No one else is to blame.”

“But…”

“Rest assured, Eleventh Young Master. Unless absolutely necessary, I won’t hurt him.” Li Zaixing patted Wang Xun’s shoulder. “I’ll keep Wang Zhun tied up, preventing him from joining the attack. Xie Da Lang, you take charge of the left flank. Wei San Lang, you’re younger—follow Xie Da Lang and use your skills for follow-up shots.”

Xie Guanglong nodded in understanding, stripped off his shirt, revealing a body of taut muscle.

“Good!” Wei Yingwu, delighted, stroked Xie Guanglong’s chest. Xie Guanglong, disgusted, moved aside and glared at him.

“Unless absolutely necessary, don’t hurt him,” Wang Xun reminded anxiously. “If trouble breaks out, no one can bear the consequences.”

“Don’t worry. I’d rather injure myself than him,” Li Zaixing smiled, removing his shirt as he repeated his promise. Wang Xun, still uneasy, had no choice. Wang Zhun was pressing too hard; not to counterattack was impossible. He could only hope Li Zaixing would show restraint.

The match resumed, with Li Zaixing and Xie Guanglong bare-chested, returning to the field. Both were tall, muscular young men, exuding an irresistible masculine aura and strikingly handsome. Their appearance drew screams from the women, and even the men watching envied them. Wang Zhun, stimulated by the sight, ordered his men to strip as well, eager to compare muscles with Li Zaixing and his team.

Wang Zhun’s followers were rough youths, accustomed to fighting, with solid physiques. Though not as powerful as Li Zaixing and Xie Guanglong, they were not weak. As they too stripped, baring their muscles to the spring breeze and the crowd, the shouts grew even louder.

Before the match restarted, the atmosphere along the sidelines was already reaching fever pitch.

Yang Miaoer, blushing, struck the brass gong.

The match resumed, and Li Zaixing approached Wang Zhun. Wang Zhun felt nervous; though strong, he couldn’t match Li Zaixing’s physique. As Li Zaixing advanced, Wang Zhun instinctively stepped back.

The crowd jeered.

Taking advantage of the opening, Li Zaixing sneered and sprinted past him. Xie Guanglong kicked the ball over; Li Zaixing intercepted, charging down the right wing toward the opponent’s goal. Two defenders closed in, one kicking at the ball, the other hurling himself toward Li Zaixing.

Li Zaixing, quick-eyed and fleet-footed, deftly flicked the ball into the air while shouldering his attacker.

With a loud crash, the airborne ruffian was struck full force, sent flying over ten feet, spinning twice before hitting the ground with a cloud of dust. Li Zaixing didn’t spare him a glance; shifting his steps, he dodged the other defender and continued toward the goal, covering five paces in a flash, nearing the left side of the opponent’s goal.

“Stop him!” Seeing the danger, Wang Zhun screamed frantically.

Three more defenders rushed in—two went for the ball, one circled behind Li Zaixing and swung a fist. This was no longer a normal football collision, but open assault. Clearly, they had no regard for Li Zaixing; as long as they could intercept, they would do anything, unconcerned about injuring or even killing him.

The crowd gasped in alarm.

Li Zaixing, without turning, was fully aware of their attack. He shouted, “Da Lang, catch!” and kicked the ball toward Xie Da Lang advancing from the left, then leaped, avoiding two sliding tackles, spinning in midair and clenching his fist, meeting the attacker head-on.

With a sickening crack, their fists collided; the ruffian’s finger bones snapped, and he fell to the ground with a scream.

On the other side, Xie Guanglong caught Li Zaixing’s pass, trapping the ball with his chest. Facing two vicious opponents, he deftly tapped the ball to Wei Yingwu breaking through the center, then spread his arms and crashed into them.

With a thunderous impact, the two ruffians were knocked flat on their backs.

Meanwhile, Wei Yingwu, with no one guarding the goal, volleyed the ball into the net, scoring a point. Overjoyed, he picked up the ball and raced around the field.

“Well done!” Yang Miaoer breathed a sigh of relief, jumped up, and cheered, clenching her small fists.

Hearing Yang Miaoer’s cheers, Wang Zhun was stunned, then furious. He rushed over and kicked the fallen ruffians, cursing, “Get up, all of you! Keep playing! If anyone dares slack off and causes me to lose, I’ll skin you myself!”

“Master, my finger’s broken—I can’t play,” the ruffian sobbed, clutching his mangled hand, his face twisted with pain.

“Master, I… I can’t… stand up,” moaned the ruffian knocked flying by Li Zaixing.

Wang Zhun was shocked and was about to look closer when Li Zaixing, grinning, ran over: “You want to play dirty? I’ll play you to death.”

Wang Zhun, furious and hot-blooded, charged at him: “Come at me!”

Li Zaixing sidestepped, sneering as he ran off.

Wang Zhun was so angry his vision blurred. Glancing around, he roared, “I’ll deal with him myself. Let’s see if he dares to hurt me. All of you, get in there! Use whatever means necessary; today we must win. If we lose and I lose face, you’ll regret it!”

The ruffians, seeing Wang Zhun’s murderous glare, shivered. Wang Zhun was mad today; if they lost and made him lose face, he might well kill them all.

“Fight!” The ruffians exchanged glances and shouted in unison.

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