Without thinking, I shook my head. “That’s way too cheap. It should be at least five thousand, right?”

“Five thousand?” The shop owner smiled and pushed the cricket jar back to me. “Then you’d better keep it. Trust me, you can ask around—the whole Guanyuan Bird Market, and not a single shop will pay five thousand for it.”

I took back the cricket jar and silently walked out of the shop.

Maybe to prove his point, over the next hour, I asked all around the market, inside and out. Some offered eight hundred, some three hundred, and some even thought I didn’t know the business and tried to buy it for fifty.

Thinking about it, it made sense. Most people go to Shandong and buy crickets by the basket at low prices, so of course they’re not willing to spend thousands on a single cricket.

I sighed, missing the old days at the Guanyuan Bird Market near Xizhimen. Back then, after catching good crickets, many enthusiasts would set up stalls by the eastmost bungalows of the market to sell them. There were no booth fees, no restrictions, and a great deal of freedom.

As the saying goes, the greater the hope, the greater the disappointment.

Just as Emily Walker and I were about to step outside for some air, a kind shop owner selling fish, holding onto his aquarium, told us about a place and suggested we try our luck there.

“Thank you.”

We went to a small garden near the Fuchengmen overpass. According to the fish seller, many people who bought crickets at the Guanyuan Bird Market would gather there to exchange, and among them were some wealthy patrons. Unlike the usual cricket hobbyists, many rich people actually gambled on these matches, so if they took a liking to your cricket, they’d be willing to pay tens of thousands.

At the end of the pebble path were several white stone tables.

Some people were walking birds and chatting about them, some were playing chess and Go—it was lively.

“Xiao Jing, let’s switch.” Emily Walker handed me her flowerpot and took the cricket jar. “I don’t think you’re very good at selling things.”

I scratched my head, embarrassed. “Sorry to trouble you.”

After a brief discussion, Emily Walker walked over to a group of young guys who were having a cricket fight, tossed the cricket jar onto the stone table, crossed her legs on the stone stool, took out a small paper fan from her LV clutch, and leisurely fanned herself. “Anyone want a cricket? This is an authentic Shandong cricket—black head, black body, top quality, up for sale!”

Uh, I clearly caught it with her by the moat—how did it become a Shandong cricket?

Her shout really did draw quite a crowd.

I wasn’t used to this kind of scene and felt a bit embarrassed.

But Emily Walker was calm and composed, rattling off a string of exaggerated praise for the cricket, but didn’t lift the lid to let them see.

At that moment, a boy at the table who looked like a middle schooler curled his lip. “Sis, aren’t you exaggerating a bit?”

Emily Walker chuckled and glanced at him. “Don’t believe me? Want to have a match and see?”

“Let’s do it!” He nudged a classmate beside him. “Aren’t you going to let your ‘Grand Marshal’ have a go?”

That guy, full of confidence, placed the jar he was holding onto the table, lifted the lid, and used a blade of grass—one of those special cricket prods from the roadside—to poke at the cricket’s antennae. After a few chirps, the boy looked at Emily Walker. “Grand Marshal is a 7.2 cricket. Still want to fight?”

Wherever there’s excitement, there are Chinese people.

The crowd grew larger and larger.

Emily Walker glanced sideways at the cricket jar. “Kid, with a little guy like that, you dare call it ‘Grand Marshal’? I think ‘Little Grain’ would be more fitting!” She really had a sharp tongue.

Everyone burst out laughing.

The middle schoolers were fuming and clamored for Aunt Walker’s cricket to make an appearance.

However, when Emily Walker slowly lifted the veil off the cricket, the owner of Grand Marshal nearly jumped up and shouted, “Damn, 8 li!”

Emily Walker giggled and added, “It’s 8.6.”

Uh, it was actually 8.4.

They were in a tough spot and had no choice but to go through with the match.

No money or territory was at stake, so our rules didn’t have to be so strict. Since my cricket jar was a bit bigger, it naturally became the arena. The match officially began. The Black Pearl spotted Grand Marshal the moment he entered, and with a whoosh, pounced with claws bared. Grand Marshal wasn’t intimidated and bit back head-on.

The clash of jaws was over in a flash.

Suddenly, my Black Pearl tilted its head, raised its scissor-like jaws, and chomped down hard on the opponent’s head. With a beautiful twist, it flipped Grand Marshal onto his back, then stood tall and let out a victor’s cry. In the blink of an eye, the winner was decided.

“Nice! That was amazing!”

“What a move!”

“Yeah! That was damn fierce!”

Everyone cheered.

Emily Walker squinted and tapped her palm with the fan. “Anyone else want to challenge?”

“I’ll go!”

“Let me try!”

Two slightly older young men sitting in the shade volunteered.

But before Aunt Walker could respond, a middle-aged man with a big belly suddenly walked between us. “Hold on, don’t fight yet. You’re selling this cricket, right? What’s your price?”

Emily Walker smiled. “No need for extra words—thirty thousand, and it’s yours.”

Chapter 11: Duck-Billed Walnut

The middle-aged man frowned. “That’s a bit steep. Can I take a look?”

Emily Walker said, “Sure,” and handed him the cricket prod.