After everybody was packed and ready—which took roughly twenty minutes of chaos involving wardrobe debates, last-minute bathroom visits, and an extended argument about whether bringing weapons to a casino was "tactical preparedness" or "asking to be arrested"—we set off into the city streets with the determined energy of people who knew we were about to do something monumentally stupid and had unanimously decided to muzzle common sense before it could object.
Littered along the streets were a vast number of Nara’s dead attack bunnies, their small corpses scattered across cobblestones like some kind of apocalyptic confetti. Nara’s reaction was visceral—her ears flattening against her skull, her normally cheerful expression collapsing into something grim and haunted as her crimson eyes tracked across each pile we passed.
I strolled alongside Brutus, who cradled our evening’s funds in a small leather sack nestled in the palm of his massive hand.
A grand total of eighty crowns plus the slight earnings we’d accumulated from my arena match—not nearly enough to make a dent in what we needed, barely enough to get us through the casino’s doors if they had minimum stakes, but sufficient enough to start with if I played it smart and luck decided to make its rare appearance in my life.
The weight of that sack represented everything we had left after Oberen’s visit, the difference between attempting this gambit and quietly admitting defeat, and watching it bounce in Brutus’s palm made my stomach twist with anxiety I was trying desperately to project as confidence.
As we continued through the slums toward the mid-section, I couldn’t help but notice the figures on the street—those same drunkards and small-time criminals we’d encountered on our way back from the warehouse, the ones who’d approached with intent to rob before my stolen ability had sent them scattering like startled birds.
Except now they weren’t even bothering to engage with us.
They simply watched with mild curiosity from doorways and alleys, their eyes tracking our movement through their territory with the kind of focused attention that indicated professional observation as opposed to casual interest.
Some of them ducked into the shadows the moment I caught them staring, disappearing with speed that spoke of practice and guilty conscience, while others held their ground but made no move to approach, threaten, or even acknowledge our presence beyond silent observation.
I sighed, the sound carrying more resignation than surprise, because I’d already suspected this would be the case.
Oberen probably employed spies on these streets—informants and lookouts who reported on anyone carrying visible wealth or displaying suspicious behavior, feeding information back to their patron in exchange for coin, protection, or whatever currency bought loyalty in the criminal underground.
They’d most likely been tailing us from the moment we left the hot springs, cataloging our numbers and noting the crates we carried, sending word ahead through whatever communication network existed for this purpose until Oberen had received enough intelligence to make his move.
The thought sent paranoia crawling up my spine like something small, persistent, and deeply unwelcome, urging me to glance over my shoulder, to catalog faces for recognition, to wonder—unhelpfully—whether anyone in our group might’ve been compromised without even knowing it.
But I decided it was best not to mind them—or at least not to show I was minding them, because displaying paranoia would be an open admission of weakness, and weakness was not the sort of accessory one wore when walking into a casino full of professional gamblers who could scent fear the way sharks scented blood in open water.
So I kept my pace steady, my expression neutral, and my body language projecting the kind of casual confidence that suggested I did this sort of thing regularly rather than flying by the seat of my pants and praying to gods I didn’t believe in.
Eventually, after reaching the mid-section of the city, Julius paused to consult his map—a worn piece of paper he’d been carrying folded in his pocket, marked with extensive notations and landmarks hinting at prior research.
He looked up from the parchment, squinting into the middle distance, before pointing with one finger down a street that curved away from the main thoroughfare.
"Should be coming up just ahead," he announced with the kind of certainty that came from someone who’d spent hours planning this exact route. "Two more blocks, then a right turn, and we’ll be looking directly at it."
I steadied my resolve as we rounded that final corner and the building unfurled itself before us through the smoke and haze that perpetually hung in the mid-section’s dim streets like fog that had given up on being atmospheric and settled for being a permanent fixture.
It was quite easy to spot, actually, given the fact that it shone about twice as bright as the surrounding buildings—which was saying something considering its neighbors included a brothel with neon signage and what appeared to be some kind of alchemical shop that glowed faintly green from whatever substances they were brewing inside.
The casino was tall—three stories at least—and absolutely flooded with light and noise that spilled from every window and doorway as though the building itself were actively resisting containment.
Music bled through the walls, threading together voices lifted in triumph or despair, the rattle of dice, the whisper of shuffling cards, the bright clink of coins—the familiar symphony of gambling that seemed to transcend both culture and worlds alike.
But what struck me most—what made me pause mid-step and just stare for a moment—was its jarring aesthetic.
The building seemed to be vaguely Egyptian themed, constructed from sandstone or something equivalent, imported at what must have been astronomical expense considering sandstone wasn’t exactly native to underground cave systems.
The facade was decorated with carved hieroglyphics that probably didn’t mean anything but looked ancient enough to discourage questions, columns rising on either side of the entrance with lotus capitals that supported a massive lintel carved with images of gods I vaguely recognized from history lessons in my previous life.
A massive scarab was perched above the double doors, wings flared in a posture of eternal vigilance, its eyes glowing with an inner light that was either genuinely magical or the result of someone very proud of their engineering budget.
I chose not to investigate further, as staring contests with symbolic insects felt like tempting fate.
The entrance itself was flanked by two enormous statues of jackal-headed figures—Anubis, presumably. They loomed with that carefully curated blend of menace and exoticism favored by establishments that want you intimidated, impressed, and slightly unsure whether you’re allowed to leave.
The windows followed the temple style, narrow at the base and flaring outward as they rose, each one edged in painted bands of gold, lapis blue, and deep red, colors chosen less for subtlety than for their ability to announce wealth at a distance.
Torches burned in wall sconces, their flames flickering in hues that hinted at alchemical assistance.
I found the whole thing deeply amusing. Another architectural callback from my previous life, bleeding through into this one like a half-remembered dream with a construction permit.
Either cultures really did converge this neatly across worlds, or someone else had made the same dimensional leap I had and decided the healthiest way to process that trauma was by commissioning aggressively thematic casinos.
Either way, it was striking. Memorable. The kind of establishment that would linger in the mind long after you’d left—whispered about in drawing rooms with equal parts scandal and envy, the sort of place where reputations were made, broken, or deliciously bent over velvet chaise lounges depending on the night’s mood and the depth of one’s purse.
I turned back to face my crew, taking a moment to assess everyone’s readiness—their expressions, their body language, the subtle tells that suggested confidence, nervousness, or barely contained chaos.
Julius looked determined but anxious, his hands fidgeting with the edges of his robe. Felix seemed calm, his face settled into that serene mask he wore when preparing for violence or high-stress situations. Brutus was unreadable as always, eyes scanning the building with tactical assessment. Nara’s ears were perked up with quiet apprehension. And Willow was grinning like she’d just been invited to her favorite kind of party.
And Grisha—who’d finally emerged from the basement looking thoroughly satisfied and only slightly disheveled—was cracking her knuckles with the enthusiasm of someone who hoped this evening might involve hitting things.
"Alright," I said, pitching my voice loud enough to carry but quiet enough not to attract attention from passing strangers. "This is it. Last chance to back out, acknowledge this is insane, and go home to drink ourselves into comfortable oblivion." I paused, letting them process that option. "Anyone want to take it? No judgment. Well, some judgment. But mostly understanding."
They looked at each other for a moment, silent communication passing between them, before turning back to me with expressions that ranged from excited, to resigned, but universally committed.
"We’re ready," Julius said simply, speaking for all of them.
"Good," I replied, because what else was there to say at this point? We were committed. The die—metaphorically and soon literally—was cast.
They cheered in unison then, a sound that was probably louder than tactically advisable given we were trying not to draw attention, but it gave me a boost to my confidence that I desperately needed. The kind of external validation that made you think "yes, maybe this will work" instead of "we’re all going to die and it’s my fault."
We strolled straight for the entrance with deliberate confidence, my crew lining up behind me like some highly coordinated operation—or, at the very least, like a group of people who’d collectively agreed to pretend we knew what we were doing and trust that no one would challenge the illusion.
Up close, the double doors were enormous—easily twelve feet tall, dark wood carved end to end with hieroglyphs and threaded with gold that caught the torchlight like it was actively auditioning for reverence. They stood open in silent invitation, offering fortune or catastrophe with the same generous lack of discrimination.
We crossed the threshold and entered a lobby that was unapologetically opulent and just unsettling enough to feel intentional, as though the decor had been carefully calibrated to impress you while quietly reminding you that losing here would feel personal.
The space beyond the doors was an aesthetic compromise that never should have been negotiated. Black velvet and red leather layered over the same Egyptian motif from outside, resulting in an atmosphere that couldn’t quite decide whether it wanted to be an ancient temple or an expensive brothel.
The floor was polished black marble, so smooth and reflective it looked almost liquid in the lamplight, creating the disconcerting sensation of walking on dark water.
Plants were scattered throughout—mostly palms and papyrus reeds, arranged in enormous ceramic pots decorated with more hieroglyphics—while oil lamps hung from chains on the sandstone ceiling above us, casting the entire room in warm light.
The walls were decorated with murals depicting scenes that were probably meant to evoke ancient Egypt but had been filtered through someone’s extremely creative interpretation—pharaohs gambling with gods, sphinxes dealing cards, pyramids that appeared to be made of coins instead stone. It was reverent, blasphemous, and aggressively confident all at once—which, I had to admit, felt thematically appropriate.
The crowd itself was a sociological experiment no one had bothered to get approved. Wealthy nobles from the inner circle mingled freely with the city’s poorest, creating a social collision that likely existed nowhere else outside of riots and very ill-advised masquerades.
The nobles were dressed appropriately for the aesthetic—flowing robes in linen or silk, jewelry that incorporated scarabs, ankhs, and other Egyptian motifs, hair styled in ways that suggested they’d paid professionals significant sums to make them look like they belonged here.
The slum folk, on the other hand, wore whatever they had, which ranged from "barely functional" to "technically clothing," jittering around the edges of the room with the nervous energy of people who were either riding highs from previous wins or desperately seeking the next hit of whatever dopamine rush gambling provided.
Some were actually on their knees before the nobles, hands clasped in supplication, begging for any funds to fuel their addiction—promising repayment, offering services, making deals that would probably haunt them later if they survived long enough to have later.
I watched as the nobles toyed with them—dangling coins just out of reach, making them perform degrading acts for small amounts, some resorting to outright violence when the begging became too annoying.
One nobleman kicked a groveling man hard enough to send him sprawling across the marble floor, then laughed while his companions applauded the cruelty.
"Charming place," Willow observed dryly, her eyes tracking the violence with clinical detachment. "Really captures that ’society is fundamentally broken’ vibe I look for in gambling establishments."
"I’ve seen worse," Grisha rumbled, "At least the architecture is interesting. Better than those boring stone boxes most places use."
"The plants are nice," Nara added, because apparently her takeaway from witnessing casual cruelty was to comment on interior design. "Do you think they’re real? Or magical constructs? They seem pretty green for plants growing underground."
Julius wasn’t paying attention to any of it, his eyes already tracking across the space with tactical assessment. "There," he said, pointing toward the far end of the lobby. "That’s where we need to check in."
I followed his gesture and spotted the line he was referring to—a queue of people waiting to approach what appeared to be some sort of check-in desk, except "desk" was an inadequate word for what was essentially a massive altar of obsidian.
The thing rose from the floor like a monolith, and behind it sat a figure processing new arrivals with the efficient detachment of a bureaucrat who’d stopped finding their job interesting years ago.
That was where we needed to be. Where we’d register our intent to gamble, where they’d assess our funds and direct us out the lobby and into the casino proper, where the actual evening would begin in earnest.
Without a second thought—because second thoughts would have been counterproductive at this point—I directed my crew to follow me with a gesture that I hoped projected confidence rather than "making this up as I go."
I stepped forward anyway, into the lights, noise, and promise of ruin, already committed to the lie that I knew exactly what I was doing—and fully aware that, one way or another, the night was about to test that claim.