One Hundred Thousand Bad Jokes · Conversa

Chentang Pass is a place that isn't too big, but isn't too small either. Sitting by the East Sea, the weather is favorable year after year. The common folk work at sunrise and rest at sunset; their days aren't exactly thrilling, but they are certainly peaceful. The only wild card is the Commander of the Pass, Lord Li Jing. This man is highly skilled in martial arts and strict in military discipline. His square face naturally carries an imposing aura of commanding prestige; when walking down the street, even the vegetable-selling aunties wouldn't dare bargain with him. But anyone who has lived in Chentang Pass long enough knows a secret about Commander Li that cannot be spoken aloud—the thing he fears most in this life is drawing his sword. Because the moment his blade leaves its sheath, everyone within a hundred-meter radius—regardless of whether they are friend, foe, or passerby—will involuntarily fall to their knees and catch the dazzling white blade with both hands. The scene is incredibly spectacular, yet incredibly awkward. For this reason, Li Jing developed a habit: if he can avoid fighting, he absolutely won't fight, and if he can just use his mouth, he absolutely won't use his sword. The common folk privately gossip that Commander Li is great in every way, except that his sword drawing makes people panic. However, today, the atmosphere in Chentang Pass is even more tense than when Li Jing draws his sword. The entire Li Manor is in a chaotic flurry; maids and old servants bustle in and out carrying hot water and gauze, while agonizing screams ring out from the delivery room, one louder than the next. Li Jing stands outside the door, his face pale and iron-blue, pacing back and forth to a rhythm comparable to beating war drums. His wife has been pregnant for three years and six months. Over a thousand days and nights—what man wouldn't have his hair turn white from anxiety? One doctor after another in the Pass has come to check on her, only to shake their heads and say they've never seen such a pregnancy. Fortune tellers, shamans, and even Blind Wang from the street corner were invited over, but not a single one could explain what was going on. Now, she is finally giving birth. Li Jing clenches his fists so tightly his nails dig into his palms, yet he feels no pain. He thinks to himself, no matter if it's a boy or a girl, even if it's a monkey, as long as mother and child are safe, that's all that matters. Suddenly, the midwife's piercing scream tears through the sky, followed by a deathly silence. Li Jing's heart seizes; he violently pushes open the door and rushes in. His wife on the bed has already passed out, her face pale but her breathing steady. The midwife is slumped on the floor, lips trembling, her shaking finger pointing toward the side of the bed. Li Jing follows her gaze—a grown man is sitting at the head of the bed, his muscles bulging with knotted veins, his shoulders wide enough to bust the doorframe. He is stretching out a pair of hands as big as palm-leaf fans, playing with his own toes. This person lifts his head, revealing a rugged, unkempt face covered in stubble, but the very first words out of his mouth are in a voice as tender as a three-year-old baby's: "Daddy, I'm hungry." Li Jing's vision goes dark; he only avoids collapsing by clutching the doorframe. The midwife scrambles up from the floor, trembling as she lifts the swaddling clothes between the burly man's legs for a peek, then turns her head and says to Li Jing: "Commander... it's, it's a young master." Li Jing looks at this "young master" whose physique is even more robust than his own, looks at that rough macho face starting to pout in grievance from hunger, and feels the whole world spinning. He remains silent for a long time, and finally says just one sentence: "Find me a block of tofu, I want to smash my head against it and die."