Nox ignis-XXXXI
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DATE:19th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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The next day, a team of royal policemen entered the VIP section, their presence casting a sudden chill over the room. They wore the distinctive insignias of the Royal Governor's retainers—deep maroon uniforms lined with silver, belts adorned with ornate sabers and pistols, marking them as something above ordinary officers. There were four of them, standing in formation like a wall of silence, led by a tall, severe-looking commissar with a thin, graying mustache and a grim stare.
I barely had time to brace myself before one of the officers stepped forward. "You," he said curtly, jerking his head. "We need to ask you a few questions."
I raised an eyebrow but nodded, following them out of the VIP area and down a quiet hallway. They led me into a dimly lit room with nothing but a table, two chairs, and a lone light bulb casting a sickly yellow glow. The commissar sat down opposite me, hands folded as he studied my face with a look that was both indifferent and piercing.
The interrogation began quietly enough. He placed a small notepad on the table, flipping through it as if it were just another routine task. Finally, he looked up and asked, "Your name?"
"Marcus," I replied, keeping my tone casual. "What's this about?"
The commissar's eyes narrowed. "A woman was found dead early this morning, here in the casino's VIP section. She was... someone of interest, given her connections." He let the implication settle, watching for any reaction on my part. "You were seen with her last night."
I kept my expression steady, shrugging slightly. "I remember her. We had a drink, exchanged a few words. Didn't catch much else. And for the record, I left with my girlfriend."
The commissar's face remained expressionless, but he glanced at one of his officers, who stepped forward with a small notebook. "That girlfriend of yours," he said. "She was also seen interrupting your interaction with the deceased."
I clenched my jaw, careful not to let anything slip. "Look," I said slowly, "if you're asking whether I had anything to do with her death, you're wasting your time. I barely knew her, and Martha... well, she's just protective. She didn't even like that woman."
The commissar didn't look convinced. He tapped his pen thoughtfully. "And yet, in a place where most people come to blend into shadows, you stood out quite a bit last night, didn't you?" His tone sharpened. "Why throw that much money around if you weren't looking for something? Someone?"
I forced myself to remain calm. "I was there to gamble. If that's a crime now, then half the people in this building are guilty."
One of the other officers stepped forward, clearly a little less disciplined, his tone hardening. "You had nothing against her, you say? Yet she left looking shaken after speaking with you. Perhaps that's how you charmed her?"
I narrowed my eyes at him, feeling my patience wearing thin. "Look, I'm sure you've got your theories. But I had no reason to hurt her—or charm her, for that matter. If you think I had some kind of motive, I'd love to hear it."
The commissar let the silence settle for a moment, his gaze never leaving mine. Finally, he leaned back, motioning for the questioning officer to step back. "No motive? Yet here you are in this casino, spending large sums, drawing attention, and consorting with people like her." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "You see how this looks, Mr. Marcus?"
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but internally I was keeping track of every word, every implication. "Like I said, I'm here to gamble. If you don't believe me, you can go ask Martha. She'll tell you the same thing."
The commissar looked at his notes one last time, then closed the notebook with a sharp snap. "That's all we need from you for now. But be careful, Mr. Marcus. You may yet find yourself drawn into more than just a simple game."
With a nod, he dismissed me, and I walked out, the feeling of their eyes on my back as I went.
Uhh, I hate to meet them again.
These pompous "policemen" haven't been sent because of actual concerns.
They are the governor's dogs. Whatever happened with that woman is connected to a bigger conspiracy. These people wouldn't leave their medieval castle otherwise. I am not kidding, their HQ is an old castle used by the Count's retainers in the past. I remember going there with Alice.
Was the official from yesterday also involved? Things wouldn't have moved just because a cleric got angry. This was different.
Wait, why exactly were the Royal policemen at that mansion murder where my team died? I didn't think about it, but even if the guests were rich, they usually wouldn't be deployed for something like that. Mostly because they are incompetent.
My eyes flickered in realization. The governor himself ordered the assassin.
That was... Horrible.
And if they are here then most likely the situation is repeated.
This means the assassin is also back.
I have no proof that the psychic Even was on the payroll of the royal governor, but there were too many coincidences...
Whatever.
This isn't my problem. I need to focus.
We decided to wait in my room, making ourselves comfortable as we planned for tonight's game. The silence stretched for a while, but Sophie eventually broke it, giving me an update on her past few days.
"Not much to report," she shrugged, glancing at the ceiling. "I've kept an eye on that Combine lieutenant, the one who's been bleeding money. He's like the last one you dealt with—same rank, same rough edges—but he's gotten cautious since losing so much."
"Think he's a threat?" I asked, though I already had my doubts.
She shook her head. "No, he's just keeping his losses in check now. I don't think he'd dare try anything desperate, not in a place like this."
But then her expression turned serious, almost annoyed. "Still no sign of Secundo Manus' associate. Whoever it is, they're being careful. It's like they're slipping right through any attempts I make to pinpoint them." She met my gaze, eyebrows raised in frustration.
I leaned back, considering her words. If this associate was avoiding any trace or making themselves invisible, they were either very good or very well-informed about everyone's suspicions. That ruled out the obvious players: someone like the lieutenant was too exposed, too obvious, and the eccentric man brought too much attention. That only left a few more subtle possibilities.
"Stay alert," I finally replied. "If Secundo Manus trusted them enough to send them here, then they're probably the one keeping their head down."
Sophie nodded, her eyes steely with determination.
When night came I found the players already seated.
As the room settled, the man with the half-dyed hair—the one representing the casino—stood up, flamboyant in his blue-and-blonde split, a cocky smile playing across his lips. He looked around the table, his eyes lingering on each face with a knowing gleam.
"Welcome, everyone," he announced, his voice sliding easily into the space between us, oozing with confidence. "I'm here on behalf of the casino, and let's not waste any time. I know many of you. Most of you are criminals—some infamous, some less so." He paused, as if savoring the tension his words created. "But personally, I couldn't care less. What I care about are the rules."
He leaned over the table, his grin widening as he scanned the players one by one. "Today's game is simple. High Card." A murmur rippled among the players, and I felt the tension thicken. High Card was almost insultingly straightforward for a gathering of this magnitude, and yet... there was something sinister about the simplicity of it. The stakes here were undoubtedly higher than they seemed.
"It's an elimination game," he continued, a faint spark of amusement in his eyes. "The kind of game where each round means someone is out. And we don't stop until there are three of you left." His gaze swept around the table, lingering momentarily on me. "I know you all received exclusive invites, and you're supposed to be some of the best. But we've had reason to believe someone here might not be acting in good faith." If the psyker was here than certainly not. Or he could be talking about me? Naah, I didn't make anything grande yet.
The room felt like it was closing in around us, the glint of suspicion in everyone's eyes sharper now.
"So," he added with a dismissive shrug, "three of you remain, and the other? We'll see. Consider this a test of integrity before moving on to the next phase."
The neon colors seemed to hum in the tense silence that followed.
The eccentric man shuffled the deck one last time with a dramatic flourish, then set it down with a satisfied grin. "All right," he declared, his voice cutting through the tension. "Just one round for tonight. One card each. Highest wins. And remember... elimination."
A silence settled over us as he dealt the cards, each one sliding across the table with a quiet finality. I could almost feel the weight of it as I picked up mine, glancing down at the number staring back at me.
One by one, we revealed our cards. The Combine gangster smirked as he flipped over a king. The masked man revealed a jack, his fingers lingering on the card as if to savor the tension. I turned mine last, showing a nine—not enough to win but far from losing. All eyes turned to the mogul as he reluctantly showed his hand—a seven.
The mogul's face turned red, his monocle slipping slightly as he scowled down at his card in disbelief. "This is ridiculous," he sputtered, gripping the edges of the table as if to steady himself. "I came here on a special invitation. I refuse to leave just because of some fluke. I'll stay and watch who wins this farce."
The eccentric man's grin only widened, a glint of warning in his eyes as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Oh, you'll regret that," he said smoothly, his voice low but dripping with menace. The look he gave the mogul was sharp enough to cut, sending a chill through the room.
The mogul hesitated, his defiance wilting under that gaze. His eyes darted from one face to another, but there was no support to be found. Even the gangster looked amused, watching him with a dismissive smirk. Finally, the mogul straightened, his expression tight with frustration, but without another word, he turned and stormed out of the room.
As the doors shut behind him, the eccentric man's smile returned, lighter, as if nothing had happened. He looked at each of us, eyes glinting with satisfaction. "And then there were four," he murmured, his voice a sly whisper that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd spoken.
I exchanged glances with the others. If the excentric man was a casino representative, the woman was dead and the mogul just left, then who the hell was the Associate?
Then I realized....
How did I fail to perceive the mask man?
No, like actually how? It was like I couldn't even think about him. This isn't natural, especially because a mask would be the most suspicious thing in this place. Thinking about it, he never said anything. The whole night yesterday, he barely even played, and no one even realized.
That was scary, this kind of power. Not even the changeling can blend in so well...
As the eccentric man laid out the rules for the actual game, his voice took on a smooth, almost hypnotic cadence, clearly relishing each word.
"This game," he began, "is called Fool's Errand." He held up a deck of cards, shuffling it as he spoke. "Each of you will receive an equal portion from this deck—six queens, six kings, six aces, and two jokers. Simple, right?"
He paused, glancing around the table to make sure he had everyone's attention. "On your turn, you'll discard up to three cards face down, announcing what they are. You could say 'two queens' or 'one king, one ace.' Whatever you like." He shrugged nonchalantly. "But here's the twist. Anyone else at the table can call you a liar."
A grin crept across his face, clearly amused by the glint of unease in some of our eyes. "If someone calls you a liar, the cards you discarded will be revealed. If you were telling the truth, then the person who called you out will be... penalized. But if you were lying, well, then you'll be the one paying the price."
He let that sink in, savoring the tension as everyone processed the stakes of this so-called game. "And the game only ends when someone discards all of their cards. Until then, we keep playing, round after round."
Then, with a snap of his fingers, the doors opened, and four men entered the room, each wearing an unsettling bunny mask. They moved with quiet precision, placing a revolver in front of each of us. My stomach clenched as I saw the cold gleam of steel, and I heard a faint gasp from the gangster on my left.
The eccentric man's eyes sparkled with a twisted excitement as he continued. "Now, about that penalty…" He tapped the revolver in front of him. "Each revolver has one bullet in its six chambers. When you're penalized, you must take the revolver, spin the cylinder, and pull the trigger with it pressed against your temple."
The room was filled with a thick silence as his words hung in the air. The eccentric man leaned back, crossing his arms with a satisfied grin, looking utterly delighted by the horror etched on everyone's faces.
"Oh, and before you ask," he added, almost as an afterthought, "yes, this is all quite real. And no, there won't be any interference if someone's luck happens to run out."
The gangster muttered a curse under his breath, glancing warily at the revolver. The masked man across the table remained impassive, while I kept my own face blank, trying to conceal the knot of apprehension forming in my gut.
The eccentric man clapped his hands once, shattering the silence. "So! Are we all ready to play? Don't worry—it's just a little risk. Just enough to make things... interesting." His gaze lingered on each of us, daring someone to challenge him.
But none did.
I looked at them all, trying to hide my skepticism. "So, what exactly are we gambling here? Surely it's not just our lives?"
The eccentric man's grin spread, as if he'd been waiting for someone to ask. He reached under his collar and pulled out a thick gold chain, plated in jewels that shimmered obnoxiously in the dim light. "Oh, I wouldn't insult you with something as shallow as just my life," he said, voice dripping with exaggerated reverence. "This necklace? It's what I value most. It's enchanted, manipulates luck. I suppose you could say it's my secret weapon."
The gangster gave a derisive snort, hardly sparing the necklace a glance before he hoisted a sleek metal briefcase onto the table with a heavy thud. "My life," he sneered, "is my most prized possession. This right here? My buy-in." He looked around the table, daring anyone to say something about it.
I narrowed my eyes at the case. So that's what the trade was for.
The masked man was next, and in eerie silence, he lifted his own briefcase onto the table. He didn't say a word, didn't even make a sound. Just that chilling, deliberate placement of the case. I could feel everyone holding their breath, but he didn't so much as blink.
The eccentric man turned to me then, his eyebrows raised in open challenge. "And you, my friend? What precious prize do you bring to the table?"
Without missing a beat, I pulled a small, unassuming packet from_ my jacket and set it down with a cool, indifferent expression. "A special formula "I said, letting the corners of my mouth curl just slightly in an almost mocking smile. "Drugs are my life." They shot me skeptical glances, clearly unimpressed, but the eccentric man waved a dismissive hand, looking practically giddy at the prospect of including me. "Perfect! Every real gambler has a passion, after all," he said, barely containing his enthusiasm.
The game started with a quiet, deadly tension hanging over us. In front of each of us lay a revolver, six chambers, one bullet. I was the first to reach for it, the cool steel heavy in my hand as I took a slow breath and eased into that familiar calm, letting my senses sharpen as I readied myself for the game.
The rules were brutal and simple. We'd draw cards, discard up to three, and call their types—knowing anyone could accuse us of lying. It wasn't just about cards; it was about who could bluff, who could press nerves until they snapped. A call meant someone would pull that revolver to their temple and face the truth of their gamble.
The eccentric man kicked off the round with a smirk, drawing his cards and loudly discarding two "aces." No one called him on it, and he leaned back, satisfied. The gangster was next. He discarded a pair of queens, eyeing each of us as if daring us to challenge him. The masked man kept to himself, playing silently, yet somehow raising the tension as his masked gaze moved slowly over us all.
Then it was my turn. I discarded three cards—a king, a queen, and an ace—and claimed each with a straight face. But the eccentric man narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. "I call your bluff," he sneered.
The revolver was in my hand again. I pulled the trigger, calm. Click.
Luck was on my side—this time. But the weight of the cold steel lingered in my hand as I set it down, a reminder that it wouldn't stay empty forever.
The game continued, tense and merciless. I lost another round a few turns later. The masked man, silent as ever, looked straight at me and said, "Bluff." Another pull of the trigger. Click.
Each time, that revolver grew heavier in my hand. But by the third lost bluff, the calm I'd practiced was beginning to strain. The gangster had called me out this time, his eyes dark and eager as he leaned forward. The revolver's barrel felt icy against my temple as I pulled again. Click. I set it down, feeling my pulse racing beneath my calm exterior. One wrong move, one stray bullet, and that click would be something else entirely.
But I wasn't out yet.
When it came down to the final hand, it was between me and the eccentric man. I drew two cards, playing it cool as I discarded "two queens." The eccentric man watched me closely, his eyes gleaming with suspicion. But this time, he held back, not willing to risk another challenge.
And with that final discard, I was the last one standing.
The game started with a quiet, deadly tension hanging over us. In front of each of us lay a revolver, six chambers, one bullet. I was the first to reach for it, the cool steel heavy in my hand as I took a slow breath and eased into that familiar calm, letting my senses sharpen as I readied myself for the game.
The rules were brutal and simple. We'd draw cards, discard up to three, and call their types—knowing anyone could accuse us of lying. It wasn't just about cards; it was about who could bluff, who could press nerves until they snapped. A call meant someone would pull that revolver to their temple and face the truth of their gamble.
The air thickened as I sat down, my heart steady but thrumming with awareness. I closed my fingers around the cold metal of the revolver, feeling its weight, the solemnity of its deadly potential. They'd given it six spins. One bullet, six chambers. Each trigger pull a breath closer to the edge.
I closed my eyes, drawing in a steady breath, letting that familiar, tingling sensation wash over me. Time slowed, blurring the edges of sound, my surroundings dulling as I focused. My pulse synced with each second's languid beat, the room stretching out into a calm, surreal landscape. This was a skill I'd honed, a survival instinct sharpened by years of living on the line. Breathing in… breathing out… and the world unraveled around me.
I could see the revolver, clearer than anything else. I could see I would die at the fifth trigger pull.
The eccentric man kicked off the round with a smirk, drawing his cards and loudly discarding two "aces." No one called him on it, and he leaned back, satisfied. The gangster was next. He discarded a pair of queens, eyeing each of us as if daring us to challenge him. The masked man kept to himself, playing silently, yet somehow raising the tension as his masked gaze moved slowly over us all.
Then it was my turn. I discarded three cards—a king, a queen, and an ace—and claimed each with a straight face. But the eccentric man narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. "I call your bluff," he sneered.
The revolver was in my hand again. I pulled the trigger, calm. Click.
I was superior, knowing this matter of life and death, but my gambling Skills weren't up to their level. But the weight of the cold steel lingered in my hand as I set it down, a reminder that it wouldn't stay empty forever.
The game continued, tense and merciless. I lost another round a few turns later. The masked man, silent as ever, looked straight at me and said, "Bluff." Another pull of the trigger. Click.
Each time, that revolver grew heavier in my hand. But by the third lost bluff, the calm I'd practiced was beginning to strain it was a ruse, of course. The gangster had called me out this time, his eyes dark and eager as he leaned forward. The revolver's barrel felt icy against my temple as I pulled again. Click. I set it down, barely reacting. One wrong move, one stray bullet, and that click would be something else entirely.
But I wasn't out yet.
When it came down to the final hand, it was between me and the eccentric man. I drew two cards, playing it cool as I discarded "two queens." The eccentric man watched me closely, his eyes gleaming with suspicion. But this time, he held back, not willing to risk another challenge.
And with that final discard, I was the last one standing.
A stunned silence filled the room as I revealed my final hand, winning the round. The eccentric man's expression soured, while the gangster across from me fumed, his eyes blazing with unfiltered rage. Suddenly, he grabbed his revolver, aiming it straight at me. I froze, watching as he squeezed the trigger. **Click.** An empty chamber.
The room seemed to hold its breath, but I didn't flinch. My fingers found the cold, heavy metal of my own gun, and I raised it, leveling it between his eyes. He didn't move, his gaze locked with mine, daring me. I pulled the trigger.
The blast echoed through the room, and the gangster's body went still, his eyes wide in shock before he slumped back, lifeless, into his seat. Smoke drifted lazily from the revolver's barrel, and I lowered it, letting the silence settle back over us, heavier now, weighted by the finality of the moment.
The excentric man looked at me in a mix of shock, wariness, and maybe even a hint of respect. I slid my gun onto the table, feeling the tension break.
The game's silence shattered as I reached across the table, claiming my prize. The eccentric man's golden necklace was cool and heavy against my neck, gleaming under the dim casino lights. One of the briefcases was already halfway open in my hands, and as the lid lifted, I spotted something gleaming inside—a vial. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. That had to be it.
I snapped the case shut, but before I could pull it away, a firm, icy hand latched onto my wrist. My head whipped up to see the masked man, his grip like iron. I blinked, suddenly uneasy as his mask, smooth and featureless, started to crumble away.
Underneath, his face was… wrong. His skin twisted and contorted, features spiraling in a grotesque vortex, as if he were some nightmare creature, neither human nor anything I could fully understand.
An intense, searing pain gripped my skull. A scream tore from my throat, but the agony only grew sharper, burrowing deeper into my mind. My vision started to blur, and the room's garish lights faded into a wash of chaotic shadows.
My grip slackened, my thoughts scattered, and then—darkness.-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*