Leo woke to the sound of condensation dripping from the ceiling. Plip. Plip.
His house—if one could be generous enough to call it that—was a study in structural neglect. It was essentially a single room, a claustrophobic box where his sleeping bag, the rusted kitchenette, and a wobbly table coexisted in forced intimacy. The wallpaper, once a cheerful floral pattern, was peeling away in long, sunburned strips, revealing the damp rot of the timber beneath.
The only separate room was the bathroom, a cold, tiled closet added as an afterthought decades ago.
Leo sat up, his back cracking audibly. He looked out the single, grime-streaked window. Across the property, separated by a patch of weeds, stood Takakura's house. It was a sturdy, log-cabin style structure with a pitched roof that actually repelled water and paint that hadn't surrendered to the elements. It was a house for a professional. Leo's shack was a house for a squatter.
"Asset inequality," Leo muttered, rubbing his face.
He walked to the table. His wallet was empty. The 400 Gold from the jewelry sale was gone, spent on the grass seed and basic rations. He had a field of slowly sprouting fodder, a stomach rumbling with hunger, and absolutely no liquid capital to buy the vegetable seeds he actually needed to turn a profit.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tarnished copper coin.
The Casino Token.
"The only way to move this much earth is to cheat," Guts had said.
Leo flipped the coin. It caught the morning light, spinning in the air. He didn't believe in luck. Luck was just a variable you hadn't isolated yet. But he did believe in probability.
He stepped outside. The morning air was crisp, tasting of pine resin and dew.
For all its economic hostility, Forget-Me-Not Valley was painfully beautiful. The main road was paved with ancient cobblestones, worn smooth by generations of carts and boots. They shone like polished river rocks in the sun. To his left, the Turtle Pond reflected the cerulean sky, the water disturbed only by the lazy drift of a mallard.
Great oak trees lined the path, their branches swaying softly in the breeze. The rustle of the leaves was a constant, soothing white noise—shhh-shhh—that sounded like the valley breathing.
Leo walked north, past Vesta's thriving farm, toward the hollow of the Great Tree near the Goddess Pond. He felt out of place in this watercolor painting. He was a smudge of graphite—tired, broke, and vibrating with nervous energy.
He reached the Great Tree. A small door was carved into the root system, obscured by moss. He knocked.
The door didn't open. It dissolved.
The interior of the tree was not a whimsical elf dwelling. It smelled of cigar smoke, stale hops, and high-stakes desperation.
It was a pocket dimension, larger on the inside than the out. The walls were lined with ticker tape machines made of bark, printing out long streams of leaves with numbers etched on them. In the center of the room sat a green felt table.
Standing on the table was a Sprite in an orange tunic. He wore a visor and chewed on an unlit matchstick. This was Jet.
"We don't accept debit cards," Jet said, shuffling a deck of cards with a blurring speed. "And looking at your aura, you're bankrupt on Karma points, too."
"Here's the token," Leo said, placing the copper coin on the felt.
Jet stopped shuffling. He looked at the coin, then at Leo. "That old rot-farmer has a soft spot for charity cases."
"I need seeds," Leo stated. "Cabbage. High yield. Fast growth."
"Cabbage seeds cost 500 Medals," Jet said, leaning back. "You have one token. That's ten Medals. You want to turn ten into five hundred? That's a 5000% ROI. The house edge will eat you alive, kid."
"I'm not asking for charity," Leo said, sitting down. "Deal."
The game was Blackjack. Simple. Binary. Hit or Stand.
Jet dealt. He moved with a fluid, magical grace, the cards snapping onto the table.
Leo: King, Six. (16)Jet: Queen, Face Down.
"Hit me," Leo said.
Jet smirked. He waved his hand, and the air shimmered. A illusion? A distraction. "You sure? I feel a bust coming."
Leo ignored the visual noise. He wasn't looking at the magic; he was looking at the discard tray. He had been counting. The deck was rich in low cards. The probability of drawing a ten-value card was statistically lower than average, but the probability of a bust was still 62%.
"Stand," Leo corrected.
Jet raised an eyebrow. He flipped his hole card. A Five. 15. Jet had to hit. He drew a King. 25. Bust.
"Lucky guess," Jet grumbled, sliding a stack of medals to Leo.
"Luck is for people who don't do the math," Leo said, stacking his chips.
The game continued. Leo entered a flow state. The smoky room, the magical distractions, the flickering lights—it all faded. In his mind, the table became a spreadsheet.
Running Count: +4.True Count: +2.Betting Strategy: Increase stake by 50%.
He wasn't gambling. He was arbitraging the variance. When the count was negative (favoring the house), he bet the minimum. When the count spiked positive (favoring the player), he pushed his stack in.
Jet started sweating—actual, orange droplets of sap. "You're reading my mind," the Sprite accused.
"I'm reading the distribution," Leo replied. "You're using a single deck. You haven't shuffled in twelve hands. The penetration is too deep. You gave me the advantage."
Two hours later, Leo stood up. He didn't have 500 Medals. He had 1,200.
"I'll take the Cabbage Seeds," Leo said, his voice raspy from the smoke. "And a bag of Toy Flower seeds."
Jet shoved the packets across the table. He looked angry, but also impressed. He chewed his matchstick into splinters.
"You cleared the table," Jet said quietly. "You treated the Chaos like a formula."
"It is a formula," Leo said, putting the precious seeds into his rucksack. "Everything is."
Jet leaned over the table. The playful gambler persona dropped. His eyes were ancient and dark, swirling with the same chaotic energy as the Witch Princess.
"Here is a tip, Calculator," Jet whispered. "You think you beat the house? Luck in this valley is a closed system. Conservation of Energy. You just sucked a massive amount of 'Good Fortune' out of the ether to win those cards."
Leo paused. "So?"
"So, the vacuum has to be filled," Jet warned. "To balance the equation, an equal amount of 'Bad Fortune' is heading your way. The universe hates a statistical anomaly. Watch your back, kid."
Leo walked out of the tree and into the blinding afternoon sun. The leaves rustled—shhh-shhh—but now they sounded less like breathing and more like whispering.
He touched the rucksack. He had the capital. He had the seeds. He had won.
He looked at his house in the distance—the peeling paint, the rotting wood, the single room where he slept alone. It was still a ruin. But for the first time, he had the means to change the variable.
He ignored Jet's warning. He was a man of science. He didn't believe in karma.
He started walking home, unaware that high above, the sky was turning a familiar, bruised purple. The Witch Princess had noticed the shift in probability, and she was very interested in balancing the books.