The rhythmic rustling of shuffling cards echoed steadily, like the heartbeat of a man standing on the edge of death. From behind the deep crimson velvet curtains, a waiter in a pristine uniform emerged, his face as cold and frozen as a wax statue. He placed a brand-new deck onto the green baize table with a terrifyingly decisive motion.
The pot-bellied man across from me let out a faint smirk, his fleshy fingers-heavy with gold rings-tapping a rhythm on the table. He leaned forward, exhaling a thick cloud of cigar smoke and greed that drifted directly into my face. He began to propose the deal:
-"In this place, money is nothing more than worthless scrap paper. Betting with cash is dreadfully dull..." He paused, a grotesque glint flashing in his eyes. "How about we bet with senses instead?"
A sudden chill raced down my spine. I narrowed my eyes, repeating his words as if to confirm I hadn't misheard:
-"Senses?"
-"Exactly, senses." He spread his five fingers, wiggling them with mocking flexibility. "The rules are simple: For every round you lose, I take away one sense of my choosing. Conversely, if you have the mettle to win three rounds against me, you get what you want: to leave."
To lose meant losing the ability to see, hear, or touch the world; to win only granted the right to escape this black hole. It was a blatantly unfair wager, but in this twisted world of missions, "balance" was a luxury that didn't exist. However, I worried that a man like him might be hiding a blade behind his words.
I leaned back in my chair, keeping my voice as level as possible:
-"You're saying if I win, I get to 'go'? Let's be clear upfront: I walk out of this casino's doors on my own two feet, not 'go' in the sense of meeting my ancestors."
The man froze for a second before erupting into a boisterous roar of laughter, his fatty gut quivering violently with every "ho-ho" sound:
-"Hahaha! My young friend, you are cautious to the point of paranoia! Fine. I guarantee it on my honor as the owner of this casino: win three rounds, and you leave this place in absolute safety. Well? Do you dare stake your life on these cards?"
I didn't agree immediately. Instead, I stared straight into his eyes, which were squinted shut by folds of fat, and played my final card to protect myself:
-"I have one condition: If I lose, I must have the right to choose which sense is taken. And if I win, you must return the senses you've collected."
The casino owner paused, his thick eyebrows arching in amusement. He fell silent, pondering for a moment-perhaps calculating if this would dampen his excitement. Finally, he shrugged and gave a curt reply:
-"Fine, no problem! It's only fair."
-"Then let us begin," I whispered, my voice dropping low enough to dissolve into the room's suffocating atmosphere.
Immediately, the dealer stepped forward. His hands were long and skeletal, like mechanical pincers, beginning to shuffle the deck at a dizzying speed. Each card took flight and glided down, clashing together with crisp, rhythmic snaps-so fluid they looked like a black-and-white silk ribbon dancing in mid-air. The hypnotic tempo could easily daze a person, but I knew that even a second of distraction would cost me a part of my body.
The performance ended with a dry clack as the deck was set down. Two random cards were pushed toward me, sliding across the smooth green felt.
I took a deep breath, feeling a faint, cold tingling in my palms. Gently peeling back the corner of the cards, my heart skipped a beat. An Ace and a 2. A total of only 13 points.
The number 13 appeared like a curse in the very first round. With this total, staying meant a guaranteed loss, but hitting was no different from stepping one foot over the precipice of "busting." Sweat began to bead on my temples. I could feel the mocking gaze of the fat man glued to every expression on my face.
I had to hit. It was the only choice.
The dealer gave a slight nod when I signaled for another card. With a practiced motion, he swept his hand across the table, spreading the deck into a perfectly straight line, as uniform as fish scales. The identical card backs seemed to challenge both my vision and my intuition.
I swallowed hard, my trembling finger hovering over the cards. A chilly aura radiated from them, making me hesitate, but then, following a gut instinct, I decisively pulled a card from the middle. I took a deep breath and slowly flipped it over.
A 5.
The current total was 13 + 5 = 18.
18 points - not perfect, but extremely safe in this situation. A small sense of relief crept into my chest. I let out a faint sigh and signaled to stay.
However, the surrounding atmosphere did not relax. I caught the casino owner's gaze fixed on me. He didn't look worried at all; on the contrary, the corners of his lips curled into a cryptic smirk. He slowly reached out his fleshy hand and drew a card from the community pile without looking for even a second.
The room fell into a deathly silence. There was only the ticking of the clock and the sound of my own ragged breathing. He leisurely flipped the card over and tapped it lightly against the table:
-"A pity, little friend. It seems lady luck isn't on your side."
Before my eyes lay a perfect 21 - the absolute score of Blackjack.
I froze. A cold jolt of electricity surged down my spine, and cold sweat began to break out on my forehead. Failure had arrived too fast and too cruelly. Outside the circle, Yashu, who was watching, couldn't help but tremble. She clenched her fists, her face pale with shock. The chilling aura from the casino owner wasn't just aimed at me; it was like a ghost looming over the entire room, signaling that a heavy price was about to be paid.
The owner began to break into a distorted grin, the muscles on his face quivering with perverted glee:
-"So now... which sense do you want me to take? Don't make me wait too long; my patience is quite limited~"
I hesitated for a beat, my chest thumping as if it might burst. But quickly, I forced myself to regain my reason, taking a deep breath to steady my voice:
-"Taste."
I answered as decisively as possible. Of the five senses, this was perhaps the one that would least affect my ability to fight and think right now. But would this sacrifice help me turn the tide in the later rounds? I wasn't sure.
He said nothing, only slowly moving his fat hand toward my face. A bone-chilling sensation enveloped the space, making my hair stand on end. From his palm, thick, dark-black mists began to leak out, knitting together into tiny, squirming tentacles that wriggled loathsomely. I instinctively held my breath, staring wide-eyed at those monstrous things crawling through the air.
Suddenly, those tentacles lunged forward, piercing straight through my lips. It wasn't physical pain, but a frigid invasion-as if thousands of ice-worms were burrowing into every taste bud on my tongue. In the blink of an eye, they retracted as fast as they had appeared, carrying the dark mist back into the owner's palm.
I collapsed forward, gasping for air as if I had just escaped the jaws of death. Instinctively, I licked my lips, trying to find the saltiness of sweat or the bitterness of cigar smoke lingering in the air.
But there was nothing.
My entire mouth was now empty, as tasteless as if I were holding a piece of hard plastic. All perceptions of sour, spicy, salty, or sweet had been stripped away entirely. The loss was so sudden and absolute it was horrifying.
Fine. If I lose, I pay, I told myself. I had to try harder.
The dealer silently collected the old cards, his skeletal hands beginning the familiar shuffling dance once more. The sound of cards clashing echoed in my ears like a funeral dirge. I narrowed my eyes, trying to focus my vision to catch any opening in his movements, hoping to find a hint of cheating-but it was futile.
A dry, cold "click" signaled that the deck was set. New cards were pushed to both sides with a fairness that was suspiciously perfect.
I suppressed a sigh and cautiously flipped the corner of my cards. A King and a 5. A total of 15. This number was even worse than the last round-it sat right on the boundary between life and death. To hit was to risk "burning," but to stay was to simply pray for the opponent to bust.
However, my attention quickly shifted away from the numbers. A creeping sensation crawled up my spine, forcing me to look up. The fat man in front of me hadn't touched his two cards yet. He just sat there, his eyes hidden behind folds of fat, staring intensely at my face without drifting even a millimeter.
That gaze wasn't normal observation; it was like a reptile stalking its prey, trying to pierce through my mask of calm to read every heartbeat, every tiny fluctuation in my pupils. I wondered-my face didn't have words written on it, nor was I showing excessive fear-so what was he looking for? Or was it that he didn't need to look at the cards at all, but was using some special "sense" to read my hand through my own reactions?
His stare made the air in the room turn thick and heavy, making it difficult to breathe.
As the black mist gradually dissipated, the casino owner withdrew his large, clumsy hands. His chubby fingers, laden with gold rings, tapped rhythmically on the wooden table—the sound as jarring as knocks on a coffin. I fought back the dull ache from losing my sense of touch, cold sweat soaking my back, but my eyes remained unnaturally calm.
I shifted slightly, pretending to adjust my posture to ease the tension, but in reality, I was searching for Yashu's gaze. She was still standing there, her face pale with worry. I looked directly into her eyes-a look full of hidden meaning-and then abruptly flicked my gaze toward the space behind me, right at the blind spot where I was sitting. I repeated this action discreetly but urgently, signaling with my eyes for her to understand and move to stand right behind my back.
That was exactly the position where the giant "eye" on the ceiling was staring down.
Since the game began, I had noticed an anomaly. Although the owner kept mocking me, his eyes occasionally darted to a very strange angle. He wasn't looking at the cards in my hand, nor was he looking at the panicked expression I was intentionally putting on. He was looking at a vague point behind me.
A crazy theory began to take shape and dominate my mind: This man wasn't reading minds or using superior card skills at all. In truth, he was conducting a secret "exchange" with that bizarre object on the ceiling. That eye wasn't just for watching; it was a "snitch." My seating position, the angle of the cards... everything was within its line of sight. He was looking at me, but he was actually receiving signals from that "eye" to know exactly what I was holding.