The Fox Who Gambled With Fate

For the past few days, I’d been living like a trembling mouse—timid, watchful, afraid of my own shadow.
And the moment I thought of a mouse, I couldn’t help but think of A-Bao.
And when I thought of A-Bao, I couldn’t help but recall that face—all charm and venom—and that chilling voice that still rang in my ears:

“Qiaoqiao, where do you think you’re going this time?”

The thought alone sent shivers through me. My nightmares became more frequent, and I often woke up gasping in the middle of the night.
Only when I stared at the pitch-dark sky did I remember—
I was free.

Free, at last.
And yet… not happy.

I had wandered all over Yingzhong these past few days, visiting every blacksmith I could find. But not a single one could remove the shackles from my wrists.

Gu Yi had not lied: to unlock the Black Iron Chain, one would need his key.

But I could never go back to him.
My escape had been possible only because of one woman—the red-robed lady with a face identical to mine.

I remembered her name: Hong Ling.

That day, just after I knocked Shishu unconscious, she walked in. Her body was draped in crimson, her face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed bamboo hat.
She asked me only one question.

“Do you wish to leave?”

I nodded blankly.

“Then I’ll help you.”

She crouched down, pulled out a hairpin, and for a moment she looked just like one of those gallant heroes from storybooks—those who could pick any lock with a mere sliver of metal.

With a few deft movements, she freed my ankles. But when she reached for the manacles on my wrists, the pin snapped.
The Black Iron Chain refused to yield.

Gu Yi had been right: only he could open it.
Still, two free legs were enough—I could run.

I bowed three times to Hong Ling in gratitude. Then I remembered what the storybooks always said about life debts—that they must be repaid either through lifelong servitude or by offering oneself in marriage.

Alas, I was a fox without a tail—no “handle” to offer—so I gave up that notion with a sigh.

Hong Ling, of course, had no idea what was running through my head. Her tone stayed as cold as her eyes.

“You’re free now. Go as far as you can, and never appear before the Crown Prince again.”

I nodded. “Naturally.”

I climbed up to the window, one leg already out, when I hesitated and looked back.

“If you let me go… will that perverse prince take it out on you?”

Hong Ling didn’t even look up.

“That’s my concern, not yours.”

Her voice was sharp as frost. I took the hint, swallowing my words, and began to climb again.

Just then, a strong wind swept through the room. I turned my face away from the dust—and saw her hat fly off.

Beneath it was a face I knew.

I froze. Words failed me.

She didn’t seem surprised. She’d likely grown used to that reaction; everyone who saw her face for the first time must have looked the same.

“Go,” she said flatly. “If the Crown Prince comes up, it’ll be too late.”

I shivered, then scrambled through the window.
It was only the second floor—low walls all around. Even if I fell, it wouldn’t kill me.

Still, before I left, I turned to her once more.

“My name is Qiaoqiao. You saved my life. I owe you a debt. One day, I’ll repay you—whatever you ask, if it’s within my power.”

Hong Ling lifted her veil, revealing a face almost identical to mine—seven parts the same.

“Then go as far as you can,” she said softly. “Never appear before the Crown Prince again. That will be repayment enough.”

I did as she wished.

By day, I begged for food.
By night, I scurried like a mouse through back alleys.
All the while, I searched the city’s smithies, one after another—but not even the most skilled craftsmen could break the chain.

One blacksmith grew stubborn and swore he’d best it. He swung his hammer till his arms went numb and shattered three of them in a row. In the end, he sighed in defeat.

I, too, gave up.
Fine, I thought. Let it be. I’ll treat it like a bracelet.

So I drifted through Yingzhong in the shadows, inching slowly toward the Meishan Forest.

I was as inconspicuous as a mouse.
But Gu Yi, as always, was as flamboyant as a peacock.

Rumor had it that when he first arrived in Yingzhong, Emperor Zhuo Yuan refused to see him.
The excuse? The palace was under renovation, and there was “no room” for guests.

What a pathetic lie.

The Tai Cen Palace was the grandest complex on the entire continent of Yichuan—three main halls, thirty-six side chambers, and a hundred and eight courtyards. Never mind the endless wings and quarters; there was more than enough space to house Gu Yi’s entire retinue twice over.

But if Zhuo Yuan refused to meet him, Gu Yi didn’t mind. He simply led his men straight to Liu Junyuan, the largest pleasure house in Yingzhong.

There, fate decided to play its favorite game: irony.
He ran into Qin An, the General of Xihan.

Naturally, the two of them clashed.
Word on the street was that Gu Yi got thoroughly beaten—left the place with more bruises than pride.

Qin An’s victory was seen as a public humiliation for the Eastern Empire.

Now, every tavern and teahouse was filled with storytellers dramatizing the “Battle of Qin and Gu.”
Whenever they described how Gu Yi got trounced, I couldn’t help but clap and cheer, sighing with the deepest satisfaction.

If I were Gu Yi, I’d have hidden away for days to nurse my wounds.

But Gu Yi was Gu Yi—he never did what anyone expected.

After the brothel, he went straight to the gambling halls, swaggering in broad daylight. He even flaunted his royal status like a banner, terrorizing dealers and players alike.

But what he didn’t understand was this:
Casinos are the great equalizers of the world.
In there, gold is God—and everyone else, no matter their crown or title, bows before it.

He gambled for three straight days and lost every coin he brought.

They said his luck was so rotten that even the gods must have looked away in shame.

By the third night, he’d nearly bankrupted himself. The three hundred soldiers who traveled with him were about to be evicted from their lodgings.

Any reasonable man would’ve quit.

But Gu Yi wasn’t reasonable.

With the last of his pride hanging by a thread, he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small brown mouse.

“I’ll bet this,” he said.

The room burst into laughter.

Gu Yi, unbothered, wiped the stubble from his jaw and said,
“This mouse isn’t ordinary. It understands human speech.”

No one believed him, of course. But the casino’s owner, afraid of offending a nobleman, reluctantly agreed.

From the moment the wager was set, it was as if the heavens smiled upon him.

Gu Yi’s luck flipped completely.

He won hand after hand.
Before long, the table before him was piled high with gold and silver, gleaming like captured sunlight.

The onlookers were dumbstruck.
How could this be? Moments ago, the man was a penniless fool—and now he played like the God of Wealth himself!

But there it was.
Three days of bad luck were wiped away in a single night.

Now, every roll of the dice, every turn of the card—Gu Yi won them all.

Within hours, he had emptied the entire casino.

The owner could no longer stand it. Bowing low, he tried to politely ask the prince to leave.

Gu Yi ignored him, grinning ear to ear as he counted his winnings.

“Pack all this up,” he ordered General Lan, “and take it back for the soldiers. Let them eat well tonight.”

Then, glaring at the trembling owner, he barked,
“What’s wrong? Is your casino one of those that lets you lose but not win? I’ve only just broken even, and now you want me gone?”

The owner’s face twitched.

Finally, when even General Lan’s sacks were overflowing with coins, Gu Yi decided he’d had enough.

He stretched lazily, pocketed a few extra ingots for good measure, and strutted toward the door.

Before leaving, he turned back, smiling slyly.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

The moment his shadow disappeared down the street, the casino owner slammed the doors shut, packed his bags, and fled the city before dawn.