Strongest Scammer: Scamming The World, One Death At A Time
Chapter 88: The S.H.H.

Chapter 88: The S.H.H.

The spirit rat had returned—this time with a posse. And a guest.

A scrappy-looking rodent with a rice grain tattoo on his tail strutted out of a nearby flour sack.

"Who’s this?" Han Yu asked.

The spirit rat chirped and gestured with its paws.

Fatty Kui who saw the rat, was stunned. "That’s Rice Bandit Gong. He once stole from a Grand Elder’s porridge bowl and lived to tell the tale." He recognized it by some miracle.

"How do you even know about it?" Han Yu blinked. "But... That actually sounds useful." He muttered.

In less than five minutes, the rice gang had:

Reignited the fire using tiny flints and a suspicious amount of teamwork.

Replaced the crab shell with actual salt (acquired from a secret stash hidden under the pickled vegetable barrel).

And tossed Shen Tu’s crab shaker into the soup pot which they had conveniently stolen while the man was busy at work. Shen Tu screeched as the kitchen cook threw him out and hit him with a ladle twice the size of his head.

Han Yu stood victorious once again having survived another day of schems.

Back at Dormitory Nine, Han Yu found a folded piece of paper tucked under his soup bowl.

It read:

"Your efforts have not gone unnoticed. If you seek more than kitchen grease and chamber pots, follow the rat at midnight. Bring no one. Come hungry."

"...This is either a trap," Han Yu whispered, "or the start of something beautiful."

Midnight: Secret Meeting Spot (Probably Not a Health Code Violation)

The rat led him through winding alleys, past a hissing spirit frog which was leaking from a nearby disciple’s alchemy room, and into an abandoned grain storage shed. Inside, a group of servants sat around a low table stacked with snacks, coins, and one suspiciously glowing dice set.

A girl with one eyebrow and an eye patch waved. "You Han Yu?"

"Depends. Am I about to be mugged or recruited?"

She grinned. "Recruited. Welcome to the Servants’ Hustle Hideout. Or S.H.H."

"Wait... SHH? That’s—"

"Exactly. Keep your voice down."

Turns out, this was an underground servant gambling and info-trading ring. They bet on everything from disciple duels to rat races to how many dumplings Zhen Shi could eat before crying. They also traded gossip, lost items, and once sold a hairpin back to the Inner Sect Elder who lost it... at five times the price.

Han Yu stared in awe. "You’re... all insane. I love this." The boy felt like he had just met his kin.

They tossed him a rice cracker and a pouch of coins.

"Your first mission," said the girl, "is simple. Sabotage Shen Tu’s laundry."

Han Yu grinned. "Does it involve eels?"

Everyone paused.

"...It does now," said One-Eyebrow.

They discussed the plans before they all sneaked out under the cover of night.

The next day, the sun was high. The laundry was higher. And Han Yu, clinging to a creaky bamboo ladder that had definitely seen better decades, was glaring at a pair of silk boxers so fancy they probably had a bloodline.

These weren’t just underpants. These were Shen Tu’s spirit-infused, cloud-soft, lightning-conductive ceremonial underpants.

Rumors were that Shen Tu had obtained this underpants by chance when he had been sent to deliver a message by one of the disciples. He had found these pants under a rock in the garden of the disciple and had taken them away.

After all, finders keepers.

"Alright boys," Han Yu whispered, pulling a small pouch from his sleeve, "Operation: ’Zap His Arrogant Buttocks’ begins now."

Three small squeaks echoed from below.

Han Yu grinned. "That’s the spirit."

Below him, three spirit rats sat in formation like tiny generals reviewing a battle plan. The biggest one—named General Chitterfang by the servant underworld—had a crooked ear and a scar running down his tail. Next to him was Squeaks McNibble, the stealth expert, and Noodle, who mostly just existed for comic relief and snack theft.

All of them were friends of Daoist Little Rat and had been sent by him. The rat in quesiton, though, seemed to be away, his mission unknown.

Han Yu had wondered where it had gone but had been told not to question it by the servants he had met. Though they had also informed him a bit more about the special rats.

Most outer sect disciples never noticed the rats. They were too busy cultivating, polishing their swords, or posing dramatically at sunset.

But some of the servants knew.

These weren’t ordinary rats. These were Spirit Rats—intelligent, adaptable, and for some strange reason, deeply interested in petty schemes. Or at least not full fledged spirit rats as they lacked the cultivaiton base. But they still had the intelligence of one.

No one knew exactly how it started, but centuries ago, some particularly miserable servant offered a chunk of dried sausage to a rat and whispered, "Help me or I’ll die scrubbing toilets."

The rat helped.

Word spread.

Now, hidden beneath the sect in burrows, ducts, and suspiciously well-organized rat bunkers, the Rat Syndicate existed: a semi-official, mostly-cooperative network of spirit rats and some low-level servants.

The rats could sneak through walls, steal small items, deliver messages, and on occasion, bite someone in the face for a copper. In exchange, servants gave them food, information, and shiny pebbles—don’t ask why.

And only some servants were "chosen." It wasn’t clear how or why, but when a spirit rat crawled onto your bedroll, stared into your soul, and dropped a walnut in your soup or flicked a peanut at you, you knew.

Han Yu had been chosen on his third day, when he set out the half eaten dumplings to lure rats. The rats had taken it as an ’offering’ much to his luck.

Now they were accomplices. Probably best friends. Possibly cult members.

Han Yu had made some really ’skillful’ allies. Ones that he intended to keep close and make full use of. He had never expected that he would find someone that shared the same ’interest’ in trickery and the like.

Especially not when this was not even a human.

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