Wang Zhuo was dressed in sportswear; his haircut, while not flashy, suited his demeanor—meticulously trimmed and sharp. A cigarette was tucked behind his right ear, and his entire presence radiated a cynical, almost lazy swagger. Combined with his tall, straight build, he cut a fine figure, and as he stood by the pool table, he drew a few pairs of eyes.
However, he was using a communal cue, and his tracksuit was difficult to place as genuine or a high-end knock-off. His aura hovered indistinctly between that of a young street hustler and a composed university student, a jarring mix that left onlookers slightly baffled.
“What are we playing for?” An Qi asked, meticulously applying chalk to her cue tip, looking over at Wang Zhuo.
Wang Zhuo met her gaze with a challenging look: “A hundred a game, naturally. You break or should I?”
An Qi’s competitive spirit instantly ignited. A slight upward curve touched the corner of her mouth. Without a word, she walked to the break spot, bent low, sighted, and drove the cue ball into the rack, scattering the balls across the table.
Wang Zhuo chuckled inwardly. Before a bet, both parties should have put their stakes down together, with the winner taking the whole pot. By taking the bait, An Qi had overlooked this, conveniently saving him the embarrassment of not having enough cash on hand.
The so-called Eight-Ball format, unlike Snooker or Nine-Ball, is the most popular low-stakes rule set domestically. One player must pocket seven designated stripes or solids, followed by the black Eight-Ball for victory—eight balls in total, hence the abbreviation.
This rule set imposes the fewest restrictions and usually leads to a quick resolution. Often, the very first shot of the break determines the final outcome of the entire match, making it far too dependent on chance for international competition.
An Qi’s break scattered the fifteen balls, racked in a tight triangle, spreading them across the table in a seemingly haphazard arrangement. Breaking this way against a skilled player is tantamount to handing over the victory; clearly, she held Wang Zhuo in low regard.
“Missed them all? Then it’s my turn.” Wang Zhuo calmly wiped chalk onto his tip, sweeping past An Qi. He stopped, suddenly lowered his stance, casually rested his left hand on the table edge, and drove the cue forward!
Crack!
A sharp, clean impact sound followed as the yellow One-ball dropped neatly into the corner pocket. The white cue ball traced a short arc, settling near the blue Two-ball, forming a simple angle with the side pocket.
This shot was executed with decisive precision, immediately capturing the attention of nearby players. Wang Zhuo straightened up, shifted his weight one step, bent down again, supporting his left hand on the table, and pushed the cue—a fluid, seamless motion as the Two-ball shot straight into the pocket!
A clear flicker of surprise crossed An Qi’s eyes. While she was momentarily stunned, Wang Zhuo had already lined up his third shot: the purple Five-ball nudged two obstructive striped balls out of the way and rolled slowly into the pocket.
Finally, someone watching from the side couldn't help but exclaim.
“Damn, is that an O’Sullivan?”
“The first two were alright, but that draw shot was brilliant, completely unexpected!”
“Why didn't he follow up on the Three? A shame. Now that would have been impressive—clearing from One to Eight.”
“Where did this kid crawl out from? Has anyone seen him before?”
After sinking the first three balls, Wang Zhuo glanced at An Qi with a satisfied smirk. He shuffled two steps to the side and pocketed the Seven-ball with one smooth stroke.
“Ah! I get it now!” a chubby young man whispered excitedly to his companion. “No wonder he didn't shoot the Three earlier; he’s picking the balls that set up his next move!”
This young man was not far from An Qi, and though his voice was low, she heard every word clearly. She paused slightly, recalling the four solid-colored balls Wang Zhuo had pocketed moments ago. They did, in fact, resemble the chubby kid’s description: each shot involved barely moving one or two steps before immediately bending down to line up the next, never circling the entire table!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
As the remaining two solid balls and the final black Eight-ball fell in succession, Wang Zhuo found himself back beside An Qi. He retracted the cue that struck the Eight-ball and flicked his wrist, holding it ten centimeters from her chest.
“Miss, I won.”
A hundred-dollar bill landed with a soft thud in his hand. An Qi’s face was alight with competitive fire: “Again. Your break this time.”
Wang Zhuo happily tucked away the bill, feeling transported back to his high school days of cutting class to hustle cash at the pool hall. He glanced at An Qi’s slightly flushed cheeks, finding this woman who paid him so endearingly cute.
The key technique in winning money through gambling is never to reveal the full extent of your skill. In Flush, you can't let your opponent know you hold Three of a Kind; in pool, you shouldn't let them know you can clear the table in one go every game.
Furthermore, Wang Zhuo, long experienced on the felt, knew there wasn't much money to be made off a coach like An Qi. The proper approach was to display skill that was only slightly superior, coupled with an irritatingly smug attitude, to attract wealthier opponents into taking the bait.
That was precisely his strategy. After attracting sufficient attention with the first game, he initiated the long game—fishing for bigger prey. Despite An Qi trying hard to match him, she consistently lost more than she won, becoming the twitching lure hooked on his line.
Occasionally, Wang Zhuo would even set up an intentional Snooker for her. Snooker, meaning obstruction or obstacle, was a difficult situation he deliberately manufactured, forcing her to use awkward bank shots, bridge supports, and sometimes even requiring her to lean low over the table, granting him a fleeting glimpse into the neckline above her cleavage.
After losing eight hundred dollars, An Qi finally recognized the genuine gulf in skill when she noticed Wang Zhuo was playing with divided attention—glancing at her rear end during one of his shots!
The black Eight-ball was pocketed by Wang Zhuo once more. An Qi handed him a hundred-dollar bill and said with a wry smile, “I’m stopping. If I lose any more, I’ll be eating dry wind next month.”
Wang Zhuo chuckled as he took the money. A young man nearby, who had been eyeing him with clear displeasure, immediately stepped forward.
“Friend, a few games?” he challenged, sizing Wang Zhuo up arrogantly. “A thousand a game. Dare you?”
Wang Zhuo looked back at him, then smiled at An Qi. “Who is he? Your friend?”
Before An Qi could reply, the youth stepped closer, asking Wang Zhuo coldly, “Who cares who I am? Are you in or not?”
“Oh?” Wang Zhuo sneered, giving the youth a dismissive once-over. He laughed coldly, “Is this place shady? We aren't afraid of that sort of thing. Bring it on.”
“Shady” (, qiú hēi) referred to the criminal element in pool halls. Since the youth looked ready to resort to violence at any moment, Wang Zhuo used the term to mock him. But anyone daring to openly accuse another of being shady wouldn't back down either; Wang Zhuo’s words met his head-on, his presence matching the youth’s intensity.
The youth snorted, pulled out his wallet, revealing a thick stack of pink bills that were quite conspicuous. Although Wang Zhuo was worth billions, he felt an urge to win all that money back.
Often, a gambler wins not the chips, but the thrill derived from the process of victory. Wang Zhuo was already energized!
The youth counted out a thousand dollars and slapped it onto the table beside them, glaring at Wang Zhuo, waiting for him to produce his stake.
“Miss,” Wang Zhuo turned back to An Qi with a grin, “Lend me two hundred? I’ll pay you back after the first game, how about it?”
An Qi looked stunned, her mind racing. She asked with a mix of amusement and exasperation, “You didn’t bring any money with you? Were you hustling me just now on a bluff?”
“Look what you’re saying,” Wang Zhuo laughed shamelessly. “Don’t we know each other? If I lose, I’ll just owe you and pay tomorrow. Are you afraid I’ll run off?”
The youth beside them nearly choked with anger. What did he mean, “pay you back after the first game”? He was already assuming the posture of a victor before the game had even begun. One should have more decency!
“Count me in as an investor,” An Qi said, pulling out two hundred and handing it to Wang Zhuo. She smiled, “If you lose, you don’t have to pay me back. If you win, the principal and interest are all mine.”
Wang Zhuo pointed at her with satisfaction, placed his thousand dollars atop the youth’s thousand, pursed his lips, and blew across his eyebrows.
The youth stared at An Qi for a few seconds with expressions of regret, frustration, and indignation before turning back to Wang Zhuo: “You break, or me?”
Wang Zhuo had already discerned the youth’s character and analyzed from his expression that he was pursuing An Qi. He smiled faintly. “I’ll go first.”
Regardless of the ruleset, the player breaking is at a disadvantage, and Eight-Ball is no exception. Wang Zhuo volunteering to break played right into the youth’s hands; the youth grunted in agreement.
For this break, Wang Zhuo didn't allow himself the same careless freedom as before; he showed a bit more seriousness now. The opening shot directly affected the final outcome. If he missed this one, not only would his existing eight hundred dollars be lost, but An Qi’s two hundred would be dragged down with it.
Money wasn't the issue; the issue was the loss of face!
Crack!
The cue ball seemed to trace a slight arc as it struck the triangular cluster. The fifteen colored balls scattered only slightly, but the Fifteen-ball, lodged in the corner pocket, rolled as if driven by obsession. It tapped lightly against the lip of the side pocket twice, then slowly dropped in.
Cheers erupted from the onlookers. The youth’s face cycled between pale and flushed, and he muttered, “Bullshit luck.”
“Struck by some dog crap luck, indeed,” Wang Zhuo said cheerfully, putting his cue away and re-chalking. He raised his eyebrows at the youth. “I am ‘The Priest’ (). What’s your name?”
“Yanghe Daqu,” the youth replied curtly.
“His name is Liu Yanghe; he’s a high school classmate of mine,” An Qi introduced to Wang Zhuo.
Wang Zhuo made an ‘oh’ sound, surveyed the table layout, raised his cue, and sank a striped ball, simultaneously scattering the clustered remaining balls.
When he sank another striped ball, everyone watching realized the game was effectively over. Barring a miracle, young Mr. Liu Yanghe wouldn't even need to chalk his cue before conceding defeat.
Indeed, as everyone expected, Wang Zhuo cleared all eight balls with crisp efficiency. When finished, he walked to the table confidently, picked up the thousand dollars, handed two hundred back to An Qi, and slipped the remaining eight hundred into his pocket.
Liu Yanghe angrily counted out a thousand dollars and slammed it onto the table. What irritated him most was that An Qi actually accepted the two hundred, reinvesting it in the next game, clearly putting more faith in “The Priest”!