Chapter 1431 - Cockfighting

His coffee was not yet finished when the phone on his desk rang. Zhan Wuya from the Manufacturing Supervisorate. He knew the Foreign Intelligence Bureau had operatives active in Manila and wanted to ask if they could assist in covering a small exploration team entering the Philippines. The Manufacturing Supervisorate had long coveted the archipelago's rich mineral resources—beyond the well-known gold and copper deposits, they prized the Philippines' advantages in nickel and chromium ore even more.

"...These two ores are very, very, very important to us..." Zhan Wuya used the word three times for emphasis. His anxiety was justified. If the chemical industry wanted to expand production capacity, it had to break free from equipment materials with severely deficient processing properties—glass and ceramics—whose use meant the Council of Elders' chemical industry would forever remain merely expanded laboratory production.

The chemical sector clamored constantly for corrosion-resistant metal pipes and pressure vessels; the medical sector desperately needed stainless steel for new surgical instruments; the machinery industry thirsted for high-performance alloy steels and anti-corrosion coatings; even finance had proposed issuing "Australian Mythril Coins" made of stainless steel. Yet chromium and nickel were scarce resources in Hainan—indeed, in all of China. Only when mining monazite in Wenchang had they obtained some associated chromite sand. The Manufacturing Supervisorate had concentrated its technical strength to experimentally smelt a small quantity, but the output fell far short of industrial production needs. Zhan Wuya had an enormous headache over this.

"It will be quite difficult, but we'll try to find a way," Jiang Shan said into the phone. "We have to wait until our agents have fully established a foothold and considerable relationships with Manila's upper echelons before we can start. Yes, we could certainly send our own ship, but given the current situation in the Philippines, the Spanish know far more than we do. If we can secure support from local Spaniards, the exploration work will be much more convenient."

He replaced the receiver and began considering the next question: how to support Mr. Lando in meeting the Manufacturing Supervisorate's new request.

The Parian—or Jiannei, the Chinese quarter outside the walls of Manila—was a vast sprawl of low buildings fashioned from bamboo, wood, and thatch. Among them, the cockfighting arena stood out prominently. Another cockpit lay further north in Binondo, mainly for Tagalogs, but it was much smaller and cruder.

The Parian had always hosted various gambling dens, and ever since the Governor levied a gambling tax to expand revenue, the industry had flourished. Cockfighting—a spectacle rich with local color—had emerged as a form of gambling both theatrical and sufficiently exciting. Even those with no original interest in wagering would spend a copper coin to watch on a boring afternoon or evening. They were often quickly inflamed by the fanatical atmosphere and would lose their last "lead piece" on the premises. In Jiannei, one heard daily of some wealthy merchant ruined by cockfighting, or some pauper grown suddenly rich through a stroke of luck.

The Parian cockpit resembled a giant bamboo parrot cage, riddled with lattice holes through which activity inside could be glimpsed from the street. Inside, wooden planks formed three tiers of seating around the perimeter, encircling a sandy fighting ring. The conical roof was woven from bamboo as well, with several skylights opened for light and ventilation. Whenever a sudden rainstorm struck before they could be closed, the fighting cocks in the ring and the spectators in the stands all became drenched together. Despite this, tickets were always in fierce demand whenever a cockfight was held in this oversized birdcage. Everyone paid an entrance fee of one copper coin, yet the venue—which could hold more than five hundred—was perpetually packed. Outside stood crowds unable to squeeze in: natives, Chinese, mestizos, and white Europeans jostling together. Vendors selling drinks and snacks wove through the throng, hawking their wares. The place boiled with human voices; adding to the din were the crowing sounds of roosters echoing from every corner inside and outside the arena.

Only the fighting ring itself was quiet. Several Chinese men in silk shirts circled, collecting bets. The audience threw down piles of "lead pieces," countless silver coins, and Chinese silver ingots of various sizes and shapes—even small bags of gold dust. The judge arranged the stakes in neat heaps on the sand. The audience hotly debated the previous winner while vying to predict whose rooster would triumph next.

Two Tagalog handlers entered the ring. Clearly old hands at this, they teased the roosters with practiced ease until the birds' feathers stood straight up, their combs flushed purple with rage, ready for mortal combat. The audience erupted immediately, emotions running high.

"Another hundred pesos on the yellow one!" a white European in a captain's uniform bellowed. His voice struck the crowd like a boulder crashing into water, sending up countless waves. People rioted, calling to one another, reaching out hands or clapping shoulders to signal additional bets.

The handlers removed the leather sheaths from the chickens' claws, revealing sharp steel spurs attached behind the shanks. The arena fell silent. At the sound of a gong, the judge made a gesture; both sides released their birds simultaneously. The two gladiators spread their neck feathers, lowered their heads, and stared each other down. Then, all at once, they leaped and flew at one another. The captain let out a bestial cheer. The roosters turned, stood facing each other with heads bowed and bodies arched, then slammed together again, battling for three or four rounds as feathers flew everywhere. The yellow rooster swept over its opponent's head and slashed viciously with its claws; the white rooster counterattacked without hesitation, kicking its enemy into a stumble. The captain began to curse—until the yellow cock staggered upright and lunged at the enemy with redoubled ferocity. The captain was the first to rise, waving his arms and shouting, and the spectators who had wagered on the yellow rooster cheered alongside him. But soon nothing could be distinguished clearly. The battle had entered its melee phase: the fighters bit each other's combs and twisted into a tangled ball, now one falling, now the other knocked to the ground, bloodstained feathers swirling into the air.

On the highest tier of steps, a hunched figure sat motionless, completely wrapped in a black cloak, wagering with no one. This person paid little attention to the ring below; instead, he seemed quite interested in the fanatical captain. The captain had raised his spasming fist overhead and was letting out hair-raising screams. The yellow fighting cock had already collapsed sideways onto the sand, then struggled upright and limped away; after a few steps it fell again, dragging a wing, crawling slowly across the ground and leaving a long trail of blood behind.

The crowd erupted once more—some beaming with joy, others pale as death, silently handing their stakes to the winners. The owner of the defeated bird picked up the yellow rooster with head hung low. "Make it into a cold dish!" the captain roared, waving his fist in fury. "That bastard cost me three hundred pesos!" His mania did not subside until the next pair of fighting cocks entered the ring.

The audience boiled over, because the new combatants were larger and stronger than any of the previous pairs. As the Tagalogs attached steel spurs, the seats erupted; gamblers pulled out their stakes one after another. "Three hundred pesos!" The captain hoisted a bag high. "All on the red one! It'll kill that gray one for sure!" The audience whispered and chattered more noisily, and soon piles of varying heights of betting money were stacked around the ring once more.

The two Tagalog handlers set down the birds and backed away. The fiery red-feathered cock and the slightly shorter silver-gray cock immediately hurled themselves at each other, fluttering into the air. The instant their claws touched sand, they pounced again—sharp beaks pecking fiercely, steel spurs flashing, movements dazzlingly fast. The arena fell temporarily silent; few had ever witnessed such a ferocious battle in this cockpit. Then suddenly the silver-gray cock was struck: the fiery red cock drove a steel spur into its opponent's wing. Both birds crashed to the ground, one struggling desperately to free the spur lodged in its body, the other pecking relentlessly at its opponent's head, fighting to the death.

"Good! Good!" The captain shouted. "Peck it to death! Stab it to death! Kill that damned sick chicken!"

The two wrestlers finally separated, leaped up to collide again, and fell to the ground once more. The fiery red cock rushed forward, attempting to finish its opponent, but the silver-gray cock dodged sideways at the last instant, drawing gasps from the crowd. Before the overshooting red cock could turn, the silver-gray was upon it. They rolled fiercely on the sand, rose again, locked beak to beak, beat violently with wings above while hacking rapidly with spurs below, then leaped into the air, landed, and resumed ground combat with blazing fury.

Scattered cheers burst from the audience but were immediately drowned by the captain's furious curses. The silver-gray cock had gashed its opponent badly—a dark patch spreading across the red cock's breast, crimson feathers falling. But the red bird battered its enemy with powerful wings until the silver-gray fell, then leaped upon it to deliver the killing blow. The silver-gray, however, crouched, dodged, and evaded with incredible speed. The tide shifted in an instant. The fiery red cock wheeled and knocked its opponent onto its back, striking the silver-gray's chest twice and spattering blood onto the sand. Yet the silver-gray managed to retreat, sprang into the air to evade the next attack, and upon landing struck the red cock's neck.

Both birds were now disheveled and bloody, circling with heads low, kicking at one another, searching for a weakness. The captain nearly jumped from his seat, spewing a frantic torrent of Spanish and French. As if encouraged, the fiery red cock launched a dazzling flurry of attacks, seizing the upper hand. Its wings beat the silver-gray violently, spurs stabbing until blood splattered everywhere. As usual, the silver-gray retreated step by step. Defeat seemed imminent, and the captain shrieked in ecstasy—but then, impossibly, the silver-gray leaped into the air, landing to drive a steel spur squarely into the red cock's heart. The vanquished bird collapsed, becoming a heap of faintly quivering feathers, blood bubbling from its beak.