There’s something poetic about games of chance, if you’re the kind of person who finds poetry in watching adults argue over hand shapes like it’s a matter of national security.
The entire concept of roshambo exists in this beautiful paradox where the outcome is both completely random and entirely predictable, depending on whether you’re asking a statistician who’s about to ruin everyone’s fun with math, or a psychologist who’s about to ruin everyone’s fun with theories about your childhood.
It’s a mirror held up to human nature—specifically, the part of human nature that’s convinced it can spot patterns in three hand gestures a literal toddler could master in under thirty seconds.
We cling to it the way gamblers cling to lucky socks or athletes cling to pregame rituals, even when the entire domain is governed by chaos, superstition, and—apparently—the occasional zap of illicit magical manipulation hidden under the floorboards because someone decided "winning honestly" was for peasants.
Philosophers had probably written entire dissertations on this exact phenomenon—the intersection of free will and determinism, played out through the medium of a game children used to decide who got the last cookie.
Which was quite depressing once you really thought about it. Four years of undergraduate study, six years pursuing a doctorate, publish or perish, all so you could write three hundred pages about why Susan threw rock when she really should have gone with scissors.
Somewhere, in some dusty academic corner of the world where the air smelled of old books and broken dreams, there was definitely a treatise titled "The Phenomenology of Rock-Paper-Scissors: An Examination of Choice, Consequence, and Why Humans Are Terrible At Being Random." It probably had footnotes. Definitely had footnotes. Possibly more footnotes than actual text.
I’d read it later. Maybe. If I survived this, found a library, and experienced a catastrophic head injury that made me think that was a good use of my time.
For now, I raised my fist opposite Lloyd’s, mirroring his position with the kind of theatrical precision that suggested I was taking this far more seriously than any reasonable person should take a children’s game being played for the fate of a struggling brothel in the slums.
And in that exact moment—that crystalline instant when possibility hung suspended between us like dew on a spider’s web—the plotting began in earnest.
The first issue at hand—pun absolutely intended—was how I was going to counteract Lloyd’s spell, the magical circle embedded in the floor that had so rudely overridden my bodily autonomy and forced me to throw rock when I’d explicitly decided on scissors, thereby robbing me of my victory and possibly violating several laws regarding consent that probably didn’t exist but morally should.
In truth, the solution was quite simple. Elegant, even, in that way the best solutions always were once you’d actually figured them out and stopped overthinking yourself into paralysis.
I wasn’t entirely sure if it would work—there was always that delightful margin of error when dealing with magic you’d learned but a few hours ago from a succubus who’d been more interested in sexual education than thorough theoretical grounding—but it was the best shot I had, and hesitation was for people with better options.
At the instant we threw our hands and Lloyd’s floor-spell activated, sending its controlling shock through my nervous system, I would activate my own shock spell at precisely the same moment and disperse it throughout my entire body.
The two electrical currents would collide, interfere with each other, create enough static to disrupt the precise muscle control Lloyd’s spell was trying to enforce, like jamming a radio signal, except the radio was my hand and the signal was "throw rock, you pathetic fool."
It was beautiful. Poetic. Possibly stupid. But definitely worth trying.
However, there was still another problem left, and this one required significantly more brainpower than just "throw lightning at yourself and hope for the best."
I needed to predict what hand Lloyd would throw next.
The spell’s existence meant that Lloyd had to be aware of what his opponent was going to throw—otherwise, how would he know which gesture to make in response? At first, I’d thought Lloyd himself chose the outcome, programming the spell in real-time based on observation or intuition. But my mana detection when shaking his hand had proved definitively that this wasn’t the case. No lingering magical energy flowed through him, no connection between his consciousness and the magic circle, no telltale signs of active spell manipulation.
That meant the spell was running independent of him.
And yet Lloyd still knew what the outcome would be, could prepare his counter-throw with absolute confidence, never once showing surprise or hesitation when his hand emerged victorious.
That left only one possibility.
The spell wasn’t reactive. It was prescriptive. Operating on a predetermined algorithm that cycled through set patterns—triggered by some physical movement at the beginning of each match, a subtle gesture or word that reset the cycle—and then executing its programmed sequence without any input from Lloyd whatsoever.
My mind blazed, thoughts connecting like dominoes falling in rapid succession, until suddenly—
I’d got it.
That was the thing I’d been missing. That subtle wrongness I’d felt while watching the matches, the nagging sensation that something was off. Something I couldn’t quite articulate.
There was an algorithm at play, a different cycle for each opponent that reset and repeated in predictable patterns that no one had noticed because they were too caught up in the spectacle to actually analyze the broader trend.
I had to start at the base. Work backwards from my observed data to find the underlying pattern.
Cornelius had lost playing rock twice in a row—I remembered that clearly. The elven woman with silver hair had lost playing scissors then rock. The dwarf merchant with the structurally-impressive beard had lost playing rock then scissors. And the fox beastman had lost playing rock twice again.
The pattern emerged.
Rock-rock. Scissors-rock. Rock-scissors. Rock-rock again.
Three cycles, repeating. The first opponent in each cycle would be forced to throw rock twice in a row—facing paper both times, losing both rounds immediately. The second opponent would throw scissors then rock—losing to rock, then losing to paper. The third opponent would throw the opposite—losing to paper then rock.
Then the pattern reset, starting over with double-rock, continuing through the evening as challenger after challenger fell victim to the same predetermined sequence without ever realizing they were playing against a script rather than a person.
It was absolutely brilliant. The kind of plan that made you want to applaud even while you plotted revenge.
I quickly scrambled to apply this logic to the match immediately before mine, my brain working overtime to place myself correctly in the algorithm’s sequence. The noblewoman with the elaborate braids and dark skin—I’d watched her play, had seen her final round, remembered Lloyd’s triumphant grin as he claimed victory.
She’d lost using scissors in her final round.
Which meant she was the third opponent in the cycle, the rock-scissors pattern. This meant the next challenger—me—would start the pattern over, forced to throw rock twice in a row while Lloyd smugly played paper and collected his winnings.
I’d already thrown rock in round one, which meant—
The next hand Lloyd would throw would be paper. Paper to cover my algorithmically-mandated rock, securing his second victory, ending the match, and sending me away defeated, confused, and never knowing why my body had betrayed me twice in a row.
My face twitched as I tried desperately to keep my poker face intact, to not let the revelation show in my expression, my posture, or the subtle tells that Lloyd had probably spent years learning to read. This was it. This was my moment. I knew the algorithm, I knew the counter-spell, I had all the pieces I needed to absolutely demolish this smug bastard’s perfect record and claim the sponsorship that would save our failing theater-turned-brothel.
No pressure.
At that same instant, Lloyd set the game into motion, his voice cutting through my internal planning with theatrical precision.
"Rock!" the entire room cried out in unison, their voices blending into a thunderous chant that made the air vibrate around me.
I drew upon the energy in the surrounding environment—feeling it flow into me with languid ease, that now-familiar sensation of power responding to will—and let it pour through my skin, into my core, filling the reservoir of my astral nexus with raw potential.
"Paper!" the crowd continued, their enthusiasm building toward the crescendo.
I transformed the energy, processing it through the filter of my demonic nature, converting the raw environmental power into chaos energy that crackled through my system. My fingers tingled with it, my nerves singing with the barely-contained magical current.
"Scissors!" they roared.
I whispered the spell—the demonic incantation Willow had taught me, syllables dark and velvet-rough completely drowned out by the noise of the crowd pressing in on all sides.
"SHOOT!"
Multiple things happened simultaneously, so fast that later I wouldn’t be entirely sure of the exact sequence.
Lloyd’s floor-spell activated, sending its controlling shock up through the wood and into my nervous system, trying to force my hand into the predetermined rock formation that would seal my defeat. But in the same instant—the exact same instant, timing so precise it probably violated several laws of physics—I dispersed my own shock spell throughout my body.
The two forces collided.
It felt like lightning had decided to take up residence in my bones—a sharp, vicious jolt that ripped through me from the inside out, locking every muscle, setting every nerve alight, and turning my skin into a battlefield of standing hairs that I’m sure looked absolutely comical to the crowd but felt like pure, exquisite torture from where I sat.
For one terrifying heartbeat, I was certain I’d miscalculated spectacularly. That the combined current would seize me solid, freeze my heart mid-beat, and leave me to die.
But it worked.
The interference pattern disrupted Lloyd’s spell completely, the precise muscle contractions it was trying to enforce scrambled by the chaos of my own magical current. My hand responded to my will rather than the algorithm’s tyrannical demands, and my fingers extended—index and middle finger shooting out while the others curled—forming perfect, beautiful, victorious scissors.
Lloyd’s hand flew paper.
Flat, open, completely vulnerable.
Scissors cuts paper.
I win.
Just then, the entire room went absolutely ballistic.
I’m talking full pandemonium—nobles screaming like they’d just witnessed the second coming of their favorite deity, some leaping to their feet with such enthusiasm they nearly fell into the pools, others grabbing whoever was nearest and shaking them violently, shouting incoherent syllables that might’ve been words in some language I didn’t speak.
The noise was deafening, a wall of sound that hit like a physical force. Cries of impossibility filled the room, overlapping and building on each other in a cacophony of disbelief.
"He won!"
"Gods above, Lloyd lost!"
"That’s—that’s impossible!"
"Nobody beats Lloyd!"
"I’m going to faint—someone catch me if I faint—"
Lloyd himself looked utterly shaken, his usual confidence stripped away like it had never existed. In its place was raw, genuine shock that softened his sharp features into something almost vulnerable—brown eyes blown wide, pupils dark and dilated, fixed on our hands as if he couldn’t quite believe what they were telling him.
His lips parted, moved soundlessly for a heartbeat or two, shaping words that refused to come, before a faint, dazed exhale finally escaped him.
"Impossible," he whispered, the word barely audible over the crowd’s continued roaring. "That’s—I’ve never—how did you—"
I burst out laughing, couldn’t hold it back if I tried, the sound ripping free from my chest with such raw, giddy force it almost hurt.
I leaned forward over the table, grin splitting my face wide enough to feel reckless. "What’s wrong? Surprised that rock-paper-scissors turned out to be an actual game of chance rather than a carefully orchestrated scam? Shocking development, truly. I’m as stunned as you are."
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Willow at the edge of the crowd, her face split by a smirk so smug and approving it could’ve powered the city’s lights for a week.
She caught my glance then gave me a small, subtle nod—the kind that said, clear as day, I’m proud of you and also slightly aroused by your competence—before returning her attention to the chaos unfolding around us.
I stood from my seated position, spreading my arms wide to address the crowd the same way Lloyd had been doing all evening.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" I called out, my voice somehow carrying over their noise through a combination of projection and the universe deciding I deserved this moment. "It appears your undefeated champion isn’t quite as undefeatable as advertised! As you can see, he has indeed been defeated!" I paused for dramatic effect. "By a slave, no less! How embarrassing for everyone involved! Well, everyone except me. I’m having a lovely time."
The crowd’s reaction split—some laughing at my audacity, others looking scandalized, a few seeming genuinely delighted by this upset of the established order.
I turned my attention back to Lloyd, retaking my seat and leaning my elbows over the table with mock seriousness. "So! Ready for the final round? Or do you need a moment to collect yourself? Maybe splash some cold water on your face? Take a walk around the block? I can wait. I’m very patient. It’s one of my many virtues, along with humility and knowing when to quit, neither of which I actually possess but they sound nice when I list them."
Lloyd stared at me for a long moment, his expression still showing traces of that earlier shock, but then something shifted. His jaw set with determination, his eyes refocused with renewed intensity, and that competitive fire I’d glimpsed earlier came roaring back to its full strength.
He slammed his hand down on the table—not in anger, but in acceptance—before his grin returned, sharper now, carrying an edge of genuine challenge rather than casual superiority.
"You know what?" he said, his voice steady despite the chaos surrounding us. "Yes. Let’s do this. Final round. Winner takes all—the sponsorship, the glory, all of it."
But I could see it in his eyes now, could read the shift that had occurred behind his theatrical recovery. There was determination there, yes, but also something else. Something that looked suspiciously like respect. Like he’d finally found an opponent worth taking seriously instead of another noble to casually crush while entertaining the masses.
Competition. Real, genuine competition. The kind where the outcome actually mattered.
"Excellent," I purred, my voice laced with lazy confidence. "Let’s make this interesting, shall we? Best round of the evening. Make it count."
Lloyd’s grin widened, matching mine in predatory satisfaction. The final round was about to begin.
And I didn’t intend to lose.