Oberen’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson, making him look like he’d been boiled alive and left to simmer in his own rage. When he opened his mouth, what came out wasn’t so much speech as a barrage—angry shouts strung together with profanity so inventive they probably violated several unspoken decency accords and sent at least three nearby nobles into synchronized pearl-clutching fits.
"You—you fucking bastard!" he shrieked, spittle flying in dramatic arcs that caught the magical lighting and sparkled in a way I resented on principle. "You worthless, cock-sucking piece of gutter trash! You think you can embarrass me like this? Make a mockery of my casino, my authority, my reputation in front of all these people?!"
His hands were shaking violently now, fingers jabbing in my direction with all the finesse of a man trying to stab an idea out of existence. "Look at you! Standing there all smug and satisfied when you should be crawling! You’re nothing but a cheap whore who got lucky, a pretty little slut who probably fucked your way into whatever plan this is because gods know you don’t have the brains for strategy!"
In that very instant, a figure forced her way through the crowd—not with courtesy, not with apologies, but with sharp elbows and open contempt for anyone foolish enough to be between her and her objective.
Bodies staggered aside in her wake, startled protests dissolving into silence as Willow emerged from the chaos and dropped into a crouch beside me.
She leaned close and began whispering something under her breath, words in a language that made the air itself feel dense and resistant, syllables folding in on themselves in ways that suggested they were actively trying to escape her mouth and flee responsibility from whatever they were being asked to do.
Seconds later, a magic circle materialized in front of her hands, etched with rotating sigils of deep crimson light. The patterns interlocked, separated, and reassembled with nauseating precision, the kind that hurt to look at directly.
I raised a brow at her but didn’t stop her. Partly because I trusted Willow when she wore that expression, and partly because passing out from blood loss right now would’ve been deeply embarrassing after everything I’d just accomplished
When she finished her incantation, the magic circle pulsed once before dissolving into crimson motes of light that sank into my ruined hand like water into parched earth.
I glanced down to see that the bleeding had stopped—not just slowed but completely ceased. The pain was still there, throbbing and insistent, but at least I wasn’t actively losing blood anymore.
"That’s all I can do for now," Willow explained quietly, "Proper healing requires more time and energy than I have available at the moment. This should prevent you from dying of blood loss in the next few hours, which I assume was the primary concern."
"You assume correctly," I replied, then presented her the box full of my severed fingers—held awkwardly in my good hand because the alternative—trying to juggle it between my teeth like some kind of deranged circus performer—felt like it might undercut the gravitas of the moment. "Carry this for me, would you?"
She accepted it with a brisk nod, efficient as ever, but as she did I leaned in close, angling myself just enough that Oberen’s line of sight was blocked by my body and the surrounding chaos. Then I whispered directly into her ear, my voice low and precise.
"Meet Brutus on the second floor. He has a surprise for you."
Willow’s face crossed into confusion—her brow furrowing, her emerald eyes narrowing as she tried to parse what I meant—before the expression quickly melted into determination and she dashed back into the crowd without so much as a nod, disappearing between bodies like a ghost fading from reality.
I turned back to Oberen, still magnificently red and radiating enough fury to power a small city. "You know," I said conversationally, letting my tone stay light, almost friendly, "you should probably seek medical attention first before we continue this delightful conversation. I’m no doctor, but I’m fairly certain that much blood loss"—I gestured at his hand missing all but his thumb—"can lead to some rather unpleasant complications. Fainting, for instance. Or death. Both would be terribly anticlimactic given current circumstances."
Oberen straightened himself into something resembling composure, though the effort was visible in how his jaw clenched and his remaining fingers curled into a tight fist.
He snapped at his attendants in a voice that cracked slightly around the edges. "Treat me. Now. Immediately. Before I bleed out standing here listening to this insufferable little shit explain whatever fresh madness he’s orchestrated."
The attendants swarmed him instantly, producing bandages and salves from gods-knew-where, wrapping his hand in layers of clean white cloth that quickly began seeping red through the fabric.
A few of them broke off and approached me as well, their demeanor shifting seamlessly from deferential urgency to quiet professionalism as they bandaged my ruined stump to protect the wounds Willow had temporarily sealed.
When both of us were sufficiently patched up—looking like we’d lost a fight against a meat grinder and only barely survived to tell the tale—Oberen spoke again, his voice calm now but heavy beneath the surface, irritation lurking just below the forced civility.
"Explain," he said simply. "Now. In detail. Every aspect of whatever scheme you’ve pulled. I want to understand exactly how you turned my victory into... this." He gestured vaguely at the mountain of chips still surrounding my feet.
I smiled—couldn’t help it, really, because I’d been waiting for this moment, preparing for it, savoring the anticipation of getting to explain just how thoroughly I’d played him.
"Well," I began, "let me start by offering you a free lesson in gambling theory, Oberen. Consider it compensation for all the fingers you’ve cost me tonight. The fundamental truth that separates amateurs from professionals isn’t skill at reading dice, calculating odds, or even spotting cheats—though all those things certainly help. No, the real secret, the key that unlocks consistent victory in any game where stakes matter, is understanding that you should never, ever play just one side of a wager."
I paused, letting that sink in, watching Oberen’s face as he tried to work out where I was going. "You see, most gamblers—even experienced ones—approach games linearly. They place their bet, they play their hand, they win or lose based on how the dice fall, the cards land, or whatever mechanism determines outcomes. It’s straightforward. Honest. Fundamentally stupid if you’re actually trying to guarantee profit rather than chase the thrill of uncertainty."
Oberen’s patience was already wearing thin, I could tell by how his eye was starting to twitch and his bandaged hand kept clenching and unclenching rhythmically.
"Get to the point," he ground out through teeth that were probably damaging themselves from pressure.
"I already knew I held little to no chance beating you at your own game," I explained calmly, as though discussing the weather or commenting on someone’s choice of footwear. "Especially when I knew—not suspected, knew—you’d be cheating one way or another. Weighted dice, marked cards, confederates in the crowd, whatever tools you had available. You’ve been running this casino for decades. You didn’t build this empire through fair play and honest dealing. So walking in here expecting to win straight-up would’ve been naive to the point of stupidity."
"So you planned for me to win?" Oberen asked, his voice rising slightly as comprehension began dawning in fragments.
"Not quite," I gently corrected. "I planned around the possibility. There’s a difference. Planning for something assumes certainty. Planning around something acknowledges probability while preparing contingencies regardless of outcome."
I gestured at my bandaged hand. "I genuinely tried to win the game. Played to the best of my abilities, made strategic decisions based on probability and psychology, hoped that maybe luck or skill might carry me through. But I also recognized that hope isn’t strategy, that optimism doesn’t trump weighted dice, and that smart gambling requires hedging your bets across multiple vectors simultaneously."
I spread my arms wide then, addressing not just Oberen but the entire crowd still watching our exchange, hanging on every word like spectators at a particularly dramatic stage play.
"So in the hours before our match, I made certain... arrangements. Much like you did regarding your trick of the dice, I prepared my own insurance policy. A simple proposition offered to each guest currently gambling in this fine establishment."
Oberen was staring at me now, really staring, his mind clearly working overtime trying to piece together the shape of what I’d done before I spelled it out completely.
"I invited them to participate in a side contest," I continued, my voice taking on the cadence of a storyteller warming to their tale. "A playful wager. Nothing grand. Nothing threatening. Each guest could stake a mere one percent of their current holdings—just one percent, barely noticeable for most of the wealth concentrated in this room—and in return, they’d place their bet on who would win our little game. Me or you. Simple binary choice. Straightforward odds."
Oberen paused mid-breath, his eyes widening as the implications began connecting in his brain. "Wait," he stammered, the word coming out strangled. "They bet on our match? The entire crowd was wagering on the outcome?"
I nodded, my smile growing wider. "Almost all of them, yes. Turns out people love the opportunity to gamble on gambling—it’s very meta, very appealing to a certain type of mind. And the stakes I proposed were reasonable enough that even cautious bettors felt comfortable participating."
Oberen blinked hard, several times in rapid succession. "But—the terms—what were the actual terms of this wager?"
"Excellent question," I said brightly. "If I won our game, I agreed to pay one percent of my final winnings distributed among everyone who’d placed their faith in me. Generous payout for backing the underdog, wouldn’t you say?"
"Generous," Oberen spat, though the word came out bitter and acidic.
"But here’s where it gets interesting," I continued, savoring every syllable. "If I lost—which, as we’ve established, I did quite spectacularly—then everyone who participated would each forfeit one percent of their current holdings to me. Not as punishment, understand. Not as some vindictive fine for betting incorrectly. But as collateral. A commission, if you will, because I was the one risking myself, my fingers, my blood, all for the sake of their entertainment."
Oberen latched onto that last word immediately, his mind finally catching up to the full scope of what I’d orchestrated. "Entertainment," he repeated slowly, testing the word like it might explode in his mouth. "You positioned yourself as the entertainment. The spectacle. The show they were paying to watch."
I nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! You understand perfectly. I wasn’t just a participant in the game—I was the performance. The sacrifice laid out for their amusement. And people will pay handsomely for quality entertainment, especially when it involves genuine stakes with real consequences playing out in front of them."
"That’s why they were throwing crowns at your feet," Oberen whispered, and I could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes as everything clicked into place. "You turned the audience into your goddamn escrow account!" The last part came out as a shout, loud enough to make several nearby spectators jump in surprise.
I grinned at him, absolutely delighted he’d finally grasped the elegance of what I’d done. "Now you’re getting it! Though there’s more nuance to explain if you’d like the complete picture. Shall I continue?"