"Russian Roulette?"
Sabo stared at the silver-white revolver, only one of the six chambers loaded with a single round.
"You know the rules, right? My turn, your turn… Though honestly, I've always felt the odds are nothing more than a simple coin toss — live or die."
Lloyd muttered to himself as the revolver was placed at the center of the table, aiming straight at the deck of cards Sabo had laid down, like a lone rider facing an army.
"I don't even have to play with you."
Sabo shook his head.
This was his kingdom.
He held absolute power here.
Lloyd was merely a pawn — something he could crush without effort.
"No. You do."
A second firearm.
Wooden stock carved with intricate patterns, silver plating engraved with delicate flourishes — and a line of poetry etched upon its side.
Eve stared at the weapon, stunned. She was sure there was no way a gun this size could have been hidden beneath her skirt. So where on earth did Lloyd get it?
Lloyd didn't bother to explain.
His dear Winchester was now leveled at Sabo's head — point-blank. A single pull of the trigger and Sabo's skull would burst into a crimson storm before Lloyd's eyes.
"So this was your original plan?" Sabo asked quietly.
"Yes. Find you, put a gun to your head. But that carries risks — you are the boss of the Green Sharks. I can't guarantee I'd get out alive. Still… you don't want the empire you've built to collapse here, do you?"
Lloyd's gaze was ice.
"So let's not waste time, Sabo. If I win, you tell me everything. If you win, I walk away."
Sabo's expression darkened.
Being threatened in his own territory… hardly amusing.
Yet after a brief silence, he smiled — confident, predatory.
"No. The stakes aren't high enough."
"What about these?"
Lloyd's elbows rested casually on the gambling table, confidence radiating from him.
"Your hands? You're wagering your hands?" Sabo narrowed his eyes.
Ordinary hands — black sleeves rolled back to reveal pale skin marked by scars.
"Everything on the table is a wager," Lloyd replied.
For the first time, Sabo truly looked at the man before him.
He was nothing like the others Sabo had crossed — strange, like a pearl hidden in sand.
Beneath that black coat was boiling blood.
No more words were needed.
Sabo understood:
If he refused to play — Lloyd would pull the trigger.
This man did not care whether he left alive or not.
He would do it.
"I hate men like you. Men too stubborn to bend."
He grabbed the revolver, eyes locked on Lloyd.
His finger wrapped around the trigger, waiting for some reaction — yet behind the brass mask, Lloyd's gaze remained still as a dead northern sea: calm on the surface, but beneath, a cold deeper than any storm imaginable.
"I've played this many times," Sabo said, pulling the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
A bead of sweat slipped through his mask.
Still, he remained composed — and set the revolver down upon the table again.
"In the end, this is a game of nerves. The winner is always the one whose will does not break — whether they are steadfast… or simply mad."
Lloyd took the revolver.
Without hesitation, he pressed the barrel to his own head.
"What kind of man do you think you are?" Sabo asked.
"A resolute one? Or a madman?"
"You will know."
Click.
Another empty chamber.
Lloyd tossed the gun back to the center.
Two rounds fired.
The bullet now lay hidden among the next four — death creeping closer, breath by breath.
Eve stood beside him, her face drained of all color. She clutched Lloyd's arm, desperate for him to stop this madness. If he pushed further, the odds of death were no longer a mere fifty–fifty—they were soaring toward inevitability. She knew all too well that "one half chance" was nothing but a lie.
"You've lost your mind!"
Lloyd turned his head toward her. The girl was truly beautiful—worthy of being called the princess of Phoenix. Even the mask she wore couldn't hide that radiance. She reminded him of a memory—taking a steam tram toward the outskirts of her city, where green fields stretched beneath a blue sky, untouched by smokestacks or clouds of soot. A place like paradise—pure, quiet, and comforting. That same feeling was now standing right in front of him.
"Today is my lucky day. Tonight, and every night hereafter."
There was no pleading in his voice. Lloyd's expression—when had it shifted into this feverish excitement? Even through the mask, one could sense the twisted grin beneath. This was the face of a gambler who had hit the end of the line—driven to lunacy by desperation.
He pinched the girl's pale cheek with cruel force, then turned his eyes back to Szabo.
"You've already lost."
"I've lost?"
Szabo had expected him to beg for mercy using Beryl's name. But this—this he never saw coming.
"That's right. This is a battle of the mind—your words. But if you felt the need to shake my resolve… doesn't that mean you're no longer sure of victory?"
Lloyd pulled the trigger.
Click. An empty chamber.
A chilling realization crept through the room. A true gambler must never acknowledge defeat—not even in thought. The moment one admits loss… is the moment death arrives.
Szabo felt a sudden coldness down his spine. From the moment this man walked in, he was prepared for everything. A pure, unwavering will—one that would destroy anything for the sake of its goal.
"Szabo, I've won."
With that declaration, Lloyd pulled the trigger again. The cylinder spun forward with a sharp clank, sparks biting between interlocking gears. But once more—nothing. The bullet of death remained hidden. Fortune had not abandoned him.
It should have been a guaranteed deathtrap. Yet Lloyd acted as though he knew precisely where the bullet lay—skipping past both empty chambers, leaving the last fatal shot to Szabo.
One chance remained—one chamber loaded. And the barrel now pointed directly at him.
Cold sweat soaked the inside of Szabo's bull-shaped mask. This cursed game had been rigged from the very start—controlled entirely by this man. This was why he had chosen Russian roulette: a man with iron resolve could never win. Because no one ever imagined pulling the trigger over and over again—except a madman, who alone could survive until the end.
"Honor the wager, Szabo."
The gun aimed at him, Lloyd stood steady—no trembling, no sweat. Death's edge seemed almost familiar to him.
"Aren't you afraid I'll go back on my word?"
Szabo's tone was ice.
"Only if you abandon your pride. And you are free to do so."
That was the price—pride. For some, worth dying for. For others, something that never mattered.
Szabo was a Viking. Even in this age of industry, they clung to the faith of old. To cast aside honor would bar him from Valhalla for eternity.
Their eyes locked—two swordsmen gripping their blades. Only one would walk away.
Eve stared at the bull mask, at the sweat dripping like heavy drops of blood, staining the tablecloth. Pride—or reveal everything to Lloyd.
"Damn you!"
Szabo roared, drawing the gun hidden beneath the table.
But Lloyd was faster.
The silver death-bell of a revolver snapped toward Szabo's skull. Yet Lloyd still hesitated. If he fired now—no answers, and he'd die too.
But a sword was faster than either thought.
An arm flew into the air—still clutching the unfired pistol—followed by a spray of blood that painted the table crimson. Before Szabo could even scream, the blade carved across his throat.
He died without a sound—slashed apart by a phantom blade. His body slumped forward over the table before collapsing to the floor. And in the next heartbeat, another man took his place—sitting across from Lloyd. He laid the blood-soaked rapier gently upon the table. Its chipped edge had tasted more lives than one could count.
"Mr. Lloyd Holmes. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
The man's face was warped—as if his features had been crushed and twisted. A grotesque smile spread across it as he picked up Szabo's mask and pressed it to his own face.
The bull mask turned red—blood seeping through the carved patterns. Under that creeping stain, it seemed to come alive. Behind it lurked something inhuman—hungry.
"Well then… a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Szabo."
Lloyd blinked once—then his grin widened.
The air thickened—like storm-laden clouds crushing every breath.
Tonight's gamble… was only just beginning.