Chapter Seventy-Seven: Setting Up the Challenge Platform

"The quality of the crickets around here is really poor. How about we go catch some at the Temple of Earth tomorrow night?" Hongtao was dissatisfied—the crickets in the alley were obviously scrawny. After searching for ages, he’d only managed to find one barely weighing six-tenths of a mace.

"I'm not going. If we get caught again, they'll make us pull weeds. You shouldn't go either—there are patrol teams in there," his uncle refused to accompany him on this risky venture into the park.

"Thirty cents for one night. Are you coming or not?" Hongtao wielded his ultimate weapon: money.

"...Fifty cents!" His uncle had learned to bargain as well.

"Deal! Let's go home!" Though Hongtao felt fifty cents was a bit steep, there was no one else willing to accompany him into the park in the dead of night to catch crickets, so he had no choice but to accept the price.

Hongtao didn’t return to his own house to sleep first. Instead, he went to his uncle’s room to put all four crickets into a cricket jar, scattered a few grains of rice on the meal board for them, and only then slipped back to his own home to sleep. Early the next morning, he rushed over again, not caring whether his uncle was awake, and carried the four jars containing his crickets back out, following the instructions from Second Grandpa: changing the water, replacing the rice grains, and refreshing the cages.

"Xiao Tao, that's a nice cricket jar you have there. Let Grandpa take a look... Oh, this cricket's a bit small." While Hongtao was fussing with the crickets in the courtyard, Grandpa Zhang from next door strolled in. He wasn’t into insects, but he kept birds—every morning he’d take two large birdcages to the park for a stroll.

"I was out half the night and still couldn’t find any good ones. Do you know where to catch better crickets?" Hongtao didn't argue this time—his four crickets really weren’t anything special; at best, they were amateur fighters.

"Heh, you’re asking the right person. For crickets, you’ve got to go to the Ming Tombs in Changping, the Eight Great Sites in the Western Hills, or Yungang. But you’re too young to go there on your own. Tell you what, I’ll talk to the oil-olive vendor at the bird market tomorrow—ask him to keep an eye out for you. If he finds any good ones, he’ll save them for me. But you know, those are for sale. Will your grandpa buy them for you?" Grandpa Zhang hung his birdcages under the eaves, then lifted the blue cloth covering the cages so the birds could enjoy the sunlight.

"No problem, I have my own money. How much do you think they go for?" Without hesitation, Hongtao pulled a handful of change from his pocket.

"Depends on the quality. I'd say a decent eight-tenths of a mace cricket would cost at least a buck and eighty cents. Anything less wouldn’t be worth the effort. People use cages and nets for oil-olives, but catching crickets requires hands and patience," Grandpa Zhang clearly knew a thing or two about insects. In fact, old Beijingers like him and Hongtao’s grandpa all knew something about birds, fish, flowers, and insects—even if they didn’t play themselves, plenty of people around them did, and just by listening, they’d pick up the basics.

"How about I go to the bird market with you tomorrow morning? Is it far?" The price sounded manageable to Hongtao, and he began to plot.

"Alright, just get up early—meet me at the alley entrance at five-thirty, and I’ll take you. It’s not far, just the north gate of the Temple of Earth." Grandpa Zhang knew Hongtao was different from other children—he had a say in his household—so he didn’t mind taking him out and about.

"Great, see you tomorrow then, Grandpa! I’m going to go test these out!" With a new source for crickets, Hongtao immediately lost interest in his four undersized insects. He stacked the jars together, hugged them to his chest, and walked straight out of the courtyard to the big locust tree at the alley entrance. He found a wooden board from the recycling station behind him, wrote in chalk: "Cricket Fights—Five cents a round!" and propped the board against the tree. Then he ran off to play chess with Grandpa Liu from the recycling station.

Children in those days all woke up early; even if they wanted to sleep in, they couldn’t—adults had to go to work and would always get the kids up first. By nine o’clock, groups of children from several alleys had already come out, and soon they noticed the sign by the big tree where Hongtao stood with his cricket jars.

"Hongtao! Did you write this?" Quickly, a child spotted the jars beside Hongtao.

"Yeah, I wrote it. If you have a cricket, go get it! Anyone who beats me gets five cents! If you lose, you don’t pay. Only four rounds, first come, first served." Hongtao didn't even look up, moving his pawn on the chessboard as he called out loudly.

"Oh... Bang! Bang, bang, bang..." As soon as the children heard him, they scattered like startled birds, the alleys echoing with the sound of plastic mats slapping the ground as everyone dashed home for their crickets. Those without could only wait by the tree to watch the show.

"I was first—I get to fight first! Show me the five cents before we start. I don’t want you weaseling out if you lose!" The child living nearest the alley entrance arrived fastest. He was in the same grade as Hongtao’s uncle but was cautious of Hongtao’s notorious reputation.

"Damn, is my reputation really that bad?!" Hongtao tossed down his chess piece and conceded the game—he really couldn’t beat these guys at chess; they played all the time since there weren’t many other amusements.

"Let’s be clear—no shouting. If anyone yells, you can go ask them for money. Now, put your cricket in the basin, either side is fine." Hongtao set his fighting basin on the ground, placed a piece of stiff cardboard as a gate in the middle, then directed the boy to empty his cricket from the glass jar into one half. From his own jar, Hongtao took a cricket with a transfer cage, released it into the other side, and then returned the empty cage to his jar.

"Hey, that's a nice cricket jar. Where’d you get it?" The surrounding children, watching Hongtao’s moves, were envious. Their crickets were mostly kept in glass jars, with nothing like a transfer cage, and they’d just use an enamel basin for fights.

"My grandpa bought it for me. Enough chatter—quiet, everyone. We’re starting. Spirits of Heaven and Earth, Red-Headed General, show your might! Go!" Hongtao restored order, then lifted the gate in the middle of the fighting basin.

The two crickets in the basin were roughly the same size; Hongtao’s was a bit stockier. As they entered the arena, their long antennae waved as they explored the new environment, until suddenly they both sensed a murderous aura from the other side. Instinctively, they flared in rage: Who dares invade my territory? Tired of living? Come here and meet your doom!

As the gate lifted, the two crickets immediately sensed each other and moved closer. When their antennae touched, they simultaneously bent their hind legs, braced against the ground, and tensed their backs: trrrr... trrrr... trrrr...

They began to chirp at each other, jaws wide, issuing a warning: Punk! Where are you from? Don’t you know the rules? You’ve crossed the line! Get lost, or if I see you here again, I’ll bite off your leg!

Of course, with two hotheads, words alone won’t resolve anything. As Second Grandpa had said, cricket fighting, like human brawls, comes in many styles—some attack without warning, some posture first, some feign weakness before striking suddenly. Traditionally, crickets are weighed before a match—six-tenths of a mace fights another of the same weight, just like boxing weight classes in the Olympics.

Crickets are naturally aggressive; put two males together and they’ll battle until there’s a clear winner—rarely does a fight end without injury. Usually, one loses a leg or gets its belly bitten. Even if unhurt, the loser loses its fighting spirit and won’t dare challenge others for a long time; even if it recovers, its combat prowess will never be the same. But for a bunch of kids, no one bothered with such rules—unless the crickets were special breeds known for avoiding fights, the matches were open weight.

Soon, the two crickets finished their exchange of threats. Seeing neither would back down, they lunged, jaws wide, locking heads in battle. According to Second Grandpa, cricket fighting involved moves like clamping, hooking, dodging, blocking, hugging, locking, biting, grappling, rolling—but as far as Hongtao could see, these two knew just one: jaw to jaw, head to head, a bullfight!

In a matter of seconds, Hongtao’s cricket proved superior, twisted its head, and with a powerful bite flipped the other over, then pounced and bit off its opponent's leg. Satisfied, it didn’t pursue further, but stood atop the basin, wings vibrating, six legs bracing the ground, chirping triumphantly as if to say: Fool! Losing a leg is letting you off easy. I’m in a good mood today, so I’ll spare your life. Next time, stay off my turf!

A collective sigh rose from the circle of children—clear evidence of just how infamous Hongtao’s reputation was; almost everyone was hoping he’d lose.

“My turn! My turn!” Seeing the other boy lose, another child squeezed forward, clutching his jar.

“Hold on! Let me switch crickets. You can’t just wear mine down with round after round!” Hongtao stopped the boy from pouring his bug in, retrieved the victorious cricket with the transfer cage, and with a grass stick poked it back into its jar. As for the defeated cricket, now missing a leg and worthless, he simply dumped it onto the ground.