The Whole Village's Female Dogs Ruined

"How much?"

"Ten taels of silver."

"Do you take me for a fool?"

"How could that be, sir? This is a genuine Western spotted dog."

"The ink spots on this dog of yours are fading."

"..."

The stalls in the Bird Market were a mixed bag of quality. Where there was trade, there were swindlers; where there was a world of wanderers, there were opportunists. The authorities generally didn't bother policing counterfeits in these market streets, and whatever order barely existed relied on the local gang leaders.

No wonder so many gangs and syndicates had sprung up in this era—the Canal Gang, the Porter's Guild, none of them could be fully governed by the officials. The people on the ground formed their own groups, set their own rules, and policed themselves.

The old-timers' wisdom from the wandering world said: without rules, nothing can be accomplished. Trades without rules had long since died out. The ones that remained, each had its own code.

The rules of the Capital City's Bird Market were enforced by the four great masters of the Capital's dandy circle: "Master Bird, Master Longevity, Master Insect, and Master Dog."

Master Dog, who fought dogs and raised minks; Master Longevity, who kept turtles and fish; Master Insect, who fought crickets and played with katydids; and Master Bird, who raised birds and trained hawks.

Each master had their own hobbies and oversaw their respective trades, but their authority was limited. They collected stall fees and allowed people to set up shop in the Bird Market—that was it.

As for cracking down on fakes?

Impossible. There was no such rule. Anything that touched the dandy world—whether pets, jade, antiques, or calligraphy—had no rule against counterfeits.

If you sold a fake, that was your skill. If you bought a fake, that was your bad eye, your failure to understand the game, your lack of skill making you a laughingstock. No matter how aggrieved, you had to swallow it yourself.

Besides, this trade was all about selling what caught the eye, what sparked liking. Who could really say what something was worth?

A famous painter from a former dynasty did ink bamboo and cloud bamboo—a master of bamboo painting, hailed to the heavens. But if you didn't like it, if you thought it was just a few random stalks of artemisia, then it was worthless to you. People said the Tibetan mastiffs from the Western Regions were fine dogs, but you said you liked a little native mutt and would pay any price for it—then that mutt was a treasure to you.

So it all came down to personal taste and eye appeal. You couldn't set a price, you couldn't call it fake. Besides, these weren't things ordinary common folk played with. In this era, commoners still struggled to feed themselves—where would they find the leisure?

Most of these dandies came from wealthy, idle families, especially the Eight Banners' sons and brothers.

Tracing the family trees of these Eight Banners' sons and brothers back, their ancestors had fought alongside the Late Emperor to conquer the realm. By the Late Emperor's grace, a golden system was established to shield their descendants for generations. Banner-men didn't need to work or labor; they could lie idle at home and still receive monthly rice and silver, living off this stipend—an "iron rice bowl" that guaranteed harvests regardless of drought or flood.

These Eight Banners' sons and brothers were even more arrogant than officials. Officials had to pass exams and work to earn their pay, but Banner-men could lie at home and collect theirs. Over time, getting something for nothing rotted them from within. No wonder things like Fortune-Longevity Paste had become so popular.

But you had to admit, absurd governance bred strange wonders.

This bunch of wealthy, idle Eight Banners dandies, though they dragged down the development of social industrial productivity, certainly splashed cash and fueled the Great Jing Dynasty's entertainment and cultural industries.

Lin Shou strolled through the Bird Market, deeply feeling this. Apart from the stall vendors, most of the buyers were dressed in fine fabrics. Only he wore coarse cloth, marking his status and wealth at a glance. Ordinary commoners, worn down by the struggle to survive, didn't have Lin Shou's mindset.

As he walked, Lin Shou felt something tugging at him. He looked down—a little mutt was pawing at his leg. The dog was skin and bones, ugly as sin, its fur matted and tangled, with shoe prints on it from being kicked. It looked pitifully hungry, like it hadn't eaten in who knows how long, begging for food. Truly pathetic.

Whose dog was this? Lin Shou asked around a couple of times, but no one answered. Seemed like no one wanted it. Seeing the dog's hunger, he rummaged through his Three Immortals Return to the Cave but found nothing to eat. If there was anything at all, it was the reward he'd just gotten from the Record of Selling Corpses—the Virility Mushroom...

Lin Shou pulled out the mushroom and held it up. The little mutt chomped it down in one bite, then ran off.

Lin Shou didn't think much of it and kept strolling through the Bird Market. He glanced at a few dog stalls along the street. No wonder that mutt was wandering the streets unwanted—its looks were poor, it was too scrawny, a money-losing proposition that couldn't be sold. In this era, dogs were prized for ferocity and fighting ability. Few brought them home to treat like masters. Wealthy ladies who wanted a furry little thing to warm their hands didn't get dogs—they got minks. Dogs were mostly for guarding homes or, alternatively, for dogfighting.

The dandy pet world had two big "fights" where death meant no compensation: cricket fighting and dogfighting.

The Bird Market had a dogfighting arena, run by Master Dog, one of the four masters. Fights were held from time to time, and bets were placed.

Every time the dogfighting arena opened, crowds packed in tight, layer upon layer. Some came to win money, others for the thrill of the fight. The scenes were bloody; dogs getting killed in the ring was common.

Dandies who loved dogfighting bought and picked dogs for their viciousness. Lately, there was a craze for mastiffs from the Western Regions—big, heavy, fierce. Once they bit down in a fight, they wouldn't let go. Master Dog had gotten two, a male and a female. They'd already killed several dogs in the arena, undefeated generals.

These mastiffs weren't easy to come by. In the former dynasty, they were rare beasts sent as tribute from Western vassal states. Bringing two all the way through the Hexi Corridor trade route, over mountains and long distances, wasn't easy. You needed a special channel to get them. In the Bird Market, only Master Dog had that kind of far-reaching ability.

Master Dog treasured those two mastiffs immensely. Not only were they undefeated generals in the arena, bringing him great face, but they were also his future money trees.

Master Dog had gone to such trouble to import a pair of mastiffs from the Western Regions not just for his own dogfighting, but mainly to make money. He brought them here to breed locally and sell the puppies.

The mastiffs' reputation had already been made in the arena. Several wealthy, big-shot dandies had already put down deposits to buy future puppies.

Master Dog was in his room, counting money and grinning. In the Bird Market, he was the top dog in the dog-trading business. He ran a big kennel for breeding, then hyped the dogs through fights, throwing in mongrels for the dogs he wanted to promote to kill, making the dandies pay top dollar. It was a goldmine.

Though the saying went, "Ten thousand in wealth, but don't count anything with fur," at Master Dog's level, his net worth was far from low.

But just as Master Dog was enjoying himself, one of his men came over, face pale, and said:

"Master Dog, bad news. Remember that little mutt we used last time to boost the mastiffs' rep that got away? Today, when I went to the kennel to feed, I found it snuck in through a hole."

"That dog's still alive?"

Master Dog was taken aback. Lately, to hype the mastiffs' value, he'd deliberately starved several mutts and arranged for them to be fed to the mastiffs in fights. Most were killed on the spot. Only once, a clever little mutt had escaped. His man was talking about that dog. He remembered.

"Ha, that stupid dog. Starving mad, is it? Couldn't find anywhere worse to run than into the kennel to steal food and get itself killed."

Master Dog laughed dismissively. What breeds did he have in that kennel? All specially raised for selling as fighting dogs.

"Master Dog, no, no, that's not it..." The man's face grew even paler. "It killed our dogs..."

"What?!"

Master Dog was so shocked and furious he dropped his teacup. Every purebred in that kennel was a money tree. Losing even one made his heart ache.

"Which one died?!"

"The, the, the male..."

"Nonsense! I asked you which one died?!"

Master Dog slapped his man hard across the face. The man, holding his swollen cheek, said aggrievedly:

"Master Dog, the males—all of them, all dead. The females—all, all violated!"

Gah! Master Dog foamed at the mouth and passed out.