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Caleb looked at his cards. He had engineered this. The odds, the psychology, the fall of the cards, it had all led here. He called. The dealer laid the river card. Pendleton's face lit up with desperate triumph. He slammed down his cards, a queen high flush. "Read 'em and weep, gentlemen!"
Harrington roared in frustration, showing a full house, queens over tens, a monster hand brutally slain.
All eyes turned to Caleb. He turned his cards over one at a time. Ace of spades. King of spades. The final card on the board was the ten of spades. He hadn't had a flush. He had a royal flush draw that got there on the river. A perfect, unbeatable hand.
Silence gripped the immediate vicinity. Then a collective intake of breath and gasps as they realized what just happened. Applause broke out, not polite, but stunned.
Caleb meanwhile reached forward and began pulling the Everest of chips toward him. The total count of the pot was 26,789 dollars.
As the dazed Harrington stalked away after losing quite amount of playing money, Senator Pendleton, his face ashen, shuffled over to Caleb. He reeked of fear and expensive cologne. "Mr. McLaughlin," he hissed, low enough that only Caleb could hear. "A word. Please."
Caleb continued stacking chips, his expression neutral. "Of course, Senator. What do you uqnat to talk about."
"I… I am in a position of influence. A man of my stature cannot be seen… cleaned out like this." Pendleton's eyes darted around. "Allow me to buy back three thousand in chips. For that, in exchange you have my personal marker. A letter of favor. Any single request, within my considerable power, that does not jeopardize my position or myself. Think of it as an investment in… access."
Caleb stopped stacking. He met Pendleton's pleading gaze. This was better than the money. A state senator's marker was a skeleton key. The Braithwaite land deed in his satchel, a claim on a poisoned, contested estate, suddenly had a path to legitimacy.
He could bypass courts, smooth over historic grievances with the Grays, and be the only one legitimate while the others not, all with a politician's signature.
He immediately slid 3,000 dollars in chips across the felt. "Write the letter, Senator. Be specific about the obligation. I'll collect it before we get off the riverboat."
Pendleton's relief could be seen across his face. "A wise man, Mr. McLaughlin. Thank you."
After that, the next hours were a blur of focused conquest. Caleb moved through the tournament like a combines through wheat. He played blackjack, his Perception allowing him to track the shuffle with uncanny accuracy, his bets escalating with calm precision.
He sat at new poker tables, his reputation now preceding him, making opponents tight and predictable. He listened, his Business skill cataloging every overheard confession and boast.
He learned of a shipping magnate's hidden gambling debts, of a judge's penchant for bribes delivered in rare books, of a factory in Annesburg ripe for purchase due to the owner's ill health and squabbling heirs. He stored it all, a mental ledger of future assets and weapons.
His chip stack became legendary. Whispers followed him. "That's McLaughlin." "He wa said to be the Bastille Poker King, the new man is." "He can't be beat."
The woman in green, Evangeline, seemed to be at the periphery of his vision wherever he went, like a silent, approving shadow.
He took a brief respite in Stateroom Seven, a lavish cabin with a porthole overlooking the dark river. He locked the door and allowed himself a moment of fierce satisfaction. The money was real. The influence was tangible. He was building power in real time.
A soft chime announced the final table. The buy in was a staggering 5,000 dollars. The other seven players were the night's other survivors and winners.
Hardened professional gamblers, two stone faced cattle barons who had quietly accumulated wealth, a French diplomat with a passion for cards, a railroad executive, and, to Caleb's slight surprise, Evangeline. And seated with the icy stillness of a shark, the representative of Leviticus Cornwall.
This was no longer a game of deceiving amateurs. This was the deep end. These men and one woman had skills, resources, and the cold patience of predators.
Caleb felt the weight of their collective gaze as he took his seat. The Cornwall man, who had given his name simply as "Lyle," stared at him with open hostility. The professional gamblers sized him up as a potentially lucrative, but dangerous, anomaly.
Caleb's max level Poker skill hummed, but he dialed back the overt manipulation. Here, at this table, the slightest unnatural streak of luck would be noted, questioned, perhaps challenged. He had to win, but he had to win correctly.
He employed a strategy of profound patience and staggering aggression. He folded for an hour, studying every twitch, every pattern of bet sizing, every hesitation.
Caleb used his Acting skill to project a different persona here, not the unassuming novice, nor the relentless machine from the middle rounds, but a calculating, patient hunter, willing to wait days for the perfect shot.
He lost a few small pots, bleeding chips deliberately to stay engaged. He saw Lyle's tell, a slight tap of his index finger on a losing hand. He saw the tell of one gambler, a barely perceptible flaring of nostrils on a bluff.
Then, he struck. A huge pot built up between the French diplomat and one of the cattle barons. Caleb, with a mathematically middling hand, read the board and the players perfectly.
He pushed a massive raise into the pot, a bet that screamed unbeatable strength. It was a pure, high stakes bluff, backed by every ounce of his Persuasion skill, projecting absolute certainty.
The diplomat folded with a curse. The cattle baron, after three agonizing minutes, mucked his cards. Caleb pulled in the pot without showing, a move that sent a ripple of unease through the table. He hadn't just won chips, he'd won fear and acknowledgement.
The night continue to wore on. The riverboat churned through the black water, a bubble of light and tension disconnected from the world.
The final pot of the night, and the tournament, was yet to come. But as he stacked another mountain of chips, catching Evangeline's approving glance and Lyle's venomous glare, he knew the most valuable wins tonight couldn't be stacked on a felt table.
They were stored in his mind, in a senator's promised letter, and in the dawning realization across Saint Denis's elite that a new, formidable power had arrived at their table, and he played by his own rules.
The night pressed on, thick with cigar smoke, spilled liquor, and the electric tension that only vast sums of money could generate.
First was the railroad executive. He had been steady, conservative, but fear crept into his play the longer Caleb remained silent, observant, unflinching. When the man overreached on a mid sized pot, trying to muscle through with reputation alone, Caleb dismantled him with a precise, merciless re raise that left no room for hope.
The executive folded, jaw clenched, dignity intact but fortune diminished enough that he declined to rebuy. He rose, straightened his jacket, and left without a word.
Next went the French diplomat. He played beautifully, elegant bluffs, measured aggression, but elegance meant nothing against inevitability. Caleb baited him into a trap over three hands, building a narrative of weakness, then reversed it at the exact moment the diplomat committed.
The man laughed softly when he realized what had happened, shook Caleb's hand, and bowed out with gallant resignation.
One of the cattle barons, "Stonewall" Jackson, met his end not with a bang but with a slow, agonizing bleed of chips, each conservative fold chipping away at his stack until Caleb shoved him off a marginal hand with a pot sized bet that screamed inside knowledge.
The professional gamblers, recognizing a force of nature, bowed out with whatever dignity and remaining chips they could salvage, their respect a silent admission of defeat.
Soon, only four remained at the felt altar, Caleb, Lyle, the remaining cattle baron, a man called Mercer, and the enigmatic Evangeline. The crowd, which had been a buzzing background hum, now pressed in, a ring of silk, sweat, and cigar smoke around the table. All other games had ceased. Every eye was on the final tableau.
Caleb's focus was absolute. His Poker skill was a living map in his mind, tracking not just the dead cards, but the shifting probabilities, the psychological pressure points of each opponent.
Lyle was a coil of suppressed fury, playing a tight, mathematically sound game, but his hatred for the "McLaughlin an upstart" bled through in minuscule tells, a tightened jaw, a fractional delay in calling.
Mercer was a rock, unimaginative but solid, playing only premium hands. Evangeline was the wild card, her play as fluid and unpredictable as her smile, but Caleb sensed no malice in her, only a deep, intellectual curiosity directed at him.
It was Lyle who broke the stalemate. After a particularly tense round where Caleb had stolen a pot from under him with a perfectly timed semi bluff, the Cornwall man's composure cracked.
"This is not fun," he snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet. "Why don't we make this the final hand? Leave it all up to fate? One round. All in. The true test."
A collective gasp swept the room. A forced all in in a tournament final was unheard of. It was raw, brutal, and removed all skill, leaving only the cold mercy of the deck.
Mercer grunted, his face unreadable. Evangeline's smile didn't falter, but her eyes sharpened, flicking to Caleb. Caleb's own internal calculations spun.
His Poker skill processed the request, the stack sizes, the unseen cards in the dealer's deck. A complex probability tree unfolded. The odds of a favorable outcome were… strong. Not certain, but strong enough.
The potential reward, ending this now, on his terms, in a blaze of glory that would cement his legend, was worth the calculated risk.
He let the silence stretch, building the drama. Then he gave a single, slow nod. "I've no objection. If the others agree."
Mercer, after a long pause, nodded once. Evangeline simply spread her hands gracefully. "Why not? Let fate have her fun."
The dealer, a man who had seen countless fortunes won and lost, looked to Reynard for confirmation. The majordomo, standing at the edge of the crowd, gave an almost imperceptible nod. This was spectacle, and Bronte loved spectacle.
"Very well," the dealer intoned. "One final hand. Texas Hold'em. All bets are all in pre flop. Please push your stacks to the center."
It was a mesmerizing, terrifying sight. Four fortunes, representing over 360,000 dollars, were merged into a single Everest of ivory, clay, and mother of pearl chips in the center of the table. The pot was historic. The silence was profound, broken only by the soft whick whick of the dealer's shuffle.
Caleb received his two hole cards. He didn't look at them immediately. He watched his opponents. Lyle peeked, and a fierce, hungry light ignited in his eyes. A very strong hand.
Probably pocket Aces or Kings. Mercer looked, and his stony facade showed a flicker of satisfaction. A high pair, maybe Queens or Jacks. Evangeline glanced at her cards, her expression unchanging, but she gave Caleb a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of her head. Intrigue.
Caleb then looked at his own cards. Ace of hearts. King of hearts. A monster starting hand, second only to pocket Aces. And his Poker skill confirmed it, the coming community cards would weave a narrative where this hand would be supreme, unless one of them held the singular, nearly mythical hand that could beat it.
The dealer burned a card and laid the flop, Ten of hearts, Jack of hearts, Two of diamonds.
Caleb's pulse remained steady. He now had a royal flush draw, the nuts. The only hand that could currently beat him was a made set, and even that would be vulnerable.
The turn card, Queen of hearts.
A ripple went through the crowd. Caleb now had a made straight, Ace high. But more importantly, he had every heart except the nine. He was one card from a royal flush, the holy grail of poker. Lyle's face had gone pale. Mercer looked resigned. Evangeline's smile held a hint of genuine awe.
The river card was dealt with agonizing slowness. It was the Nine of hearts. Caleb didn't react. He simply turned over his cards first, laying the Ace and King of hearts on the felt. "Royal flush."
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,465 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 192,892 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, & 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key
Bank: -