"I told him once—wearing that mask, he would become Sabo: wielding authority, and paying the price for it. The true Sabo will never surrender his dignity. Forgive the disgraceful sight."
Sabo kicked the corpse aside with a single strike. He smiled at Lloyd—yet that smile made Lloyd's heart freeze. He had never imagined the truth would be like this.
"Surprised, aren't you? That the real Sabo is a malformed creature… a dwarf."
He spoke as if Lloyd's shock was something he had witnessed countless times before—so many that he had long grown numb.
His stunted arm lifted into the light—layers of flesh and fragile bones warping his body into a twisted shape. His organs were forced into that narrow frame, and from the swordplay just now he breathed with faint strain. His thick fingers struggled to pick up the blood-soaked playing cards. He looked grotesquely bloated, yet utterly unconcerned.
"I do hope you're not disappointed by my stand-in. After all, I am the master of the Green Sharks. To rule a den of outlaws, this dwarf's body isn't much of a weapon. Hard to inspire fear. And on top of that, I am a Viking… a Viking dwarf must seem laughable to you, right?"
Sabo said it lightly—it was a tale soaked in sorrow, but he spoke as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
"It's not laughable," Lloyd replied, sincerity in his voice. "If anything… it's admirable. To command a pack of cutthroats with such a body—truly impressive."
But Sabo did not delight in the praise. His tone remained level, as though the compliment had never reached him.
"And what of you, Lloyd Holmes? I am curious—why were you so confident you'd win? Had Fortuna turned her back on you for even a heartbeat, your head would have burst like a rotten fruit. That's not mere courage nor luck alone."
That wager was a dance with death—only madness could keep rhythm with the Reaper.
"His eyes," Lloyd said.
He pointed to his own—gray-blue irises bright and sharp, reflecting the bloodstained gambling table.
"He wanted to win too badly. So badly that he was unhinged. A leader should command with overwhelming presence, yet his arrogance was brittle, pitiful. I've studied acting—he was neither a convincing actor nor a worthy gambler. A true gambler never backs down. Their chips are all they have left in life."
Lloyd had seen through the imposter early on. He simply hadn't expected the real Sabo's arrival to twist the situation into something far more dangerous.
"You seem to love gambling," Sabo remarked, shuffling cards with startling dexterity, "yet I've never seen you in a casino."
Music continued to play around them. Revelers basked in warm decadence. The corpse at their feet went unnoticed, as though death were merely part of the décor.
"Gambling is a fine thing," Lloyd mused, fingers brushing a newly minted Butcher's Coin. "One coin alone can overturn a kingdom."
He paused—recalling.
"But a friend once told me: luck runs in limited supply. A person is allotted only so much in one lifetime. Perhaps fate meant for you to die under a carriage today—but by chance you trip before it hits you, and death passes by. A soldier might survive a hail of bullets purely because luck shields him… but when that luck runs dry, a single shot ends everything.
He was the greatest gambler I ever knew. But he seldom gambled… said he needed to save up his luck."
Sabo nodded. He had heard stories like this before—yet today it felt oddly personal.
"And that friend of yours? Did he win his kingdom?"
"No. In battle, his luck was spent. A shattered fragment slid through the only gap in his divine armor—straight into his artery. That impenetrable armor became his grave."
Lloyd recited the memory coldly—like a chapter long erased from emotion.
"I gamble too," Sabo exhaled, excitement rising. "But what I crave is dancing on the edge of death—escaping with the spoils before the blade falls."
His tongue flicked across his cracked lips—scarlet, as though stained in fresh blood. His crooked teeth resembled a shark's. Eve, seated nearby, dared not utter a sound—tonight's truths had already broken the boundaries of her known world.
"For a deformity like me, it's hard to feel alive. People think I'm a curse—something to avoid. But on death's doorstep? There… the Reaper notices you. You might even brush his black cloak and return breathing. The thrill is intoxicating. Even a dead heart starts pounding again!"
He slapped the table with childish, monstrous joy—like a grotesque giant infant wrapped in madness.
"So that's what you lost?" Lloyd asked quietly.
"You mean these?"
Sabo stopped. Raised both hands.
What remained were ruined palms—fingers severed, bones amputated. Only a couple digits survived on each hand. And yet… he shuffled cards like the devil's own jester.
"Yes," he chuckled. "No gambler wins forever. But my opponents were kind—they left me thumbs and middle fingers. Enough to wield a sword… enough to kill. And one day, I will win everything back."
He lifted a slender dueling blade—light, undecorated, lacking even a crossguard. Only blade and grip—reduced weight so that even a broken-handed warrior could strike swift and fatal.
"Tonight's been splendid. Care for another round?"
"But I've already won," Lloyd answered.
"You defeated my stand-in."
"But he was Sabo too… wasn't he?"
Steel met cold resolve. Gun against rapier. Every last chip lay wet with blood atop the gambling table.
The true wager was only just beginning.
Sabo fell into silence for a moment before finally speaking.
"About what happened a few days ago—it was a man called the Mentor. He instructed us to do it, all for the sake of covering those people's escape."
"And who is this Mentor?"
"I don't know. What I do know is that he has many identities—each one of them high-ranking, whether in Ingervig or elsewhere."
"And those people?"
"That's a second question, Mr. Holmes."
A twisted grin emerged beneath the half-mask Sabo wore. He laid the blood-stained cards neatly before Lloyd, the crimson upon them not yet dry, glowing with a demonic sheen.
"So… shall we play another game?"
…
A dead silence followed. The air remained warm, the music still triumphant, yet high upon the platform everything was frozen as though plunged into an icy abyss.
Sabo had reclaimed his dignity—nothing more. If Lloyd wished to learn anything further, he would have to gamble again. Lloyd lowered his eyes in contemplation. This time was different from before—this time he faced the real Sabo, a true gambler.
"That should be enough…"
Eve whispered, her voice uneasy. As a princess of the Phoenix family, her understanding of the world's cruelty had been limited to written accounts of wars. Now she felt a kind of fear she had never known.
But Lloyd ignored her. He, too, was deeply unsettled—but unlike Eve, his anxiety came from the need to uncover the full truth.
The mysterious cargo from the North…
The unseen hands manipulating Sabo, Borrel, and others hiding deeper in the dark…
And most of all—the visions he saw through his Spirit Sight: twisted flesh, a towering lighthouse, grotesque shapes crawling out from old memories, trying to drag him back into that rainy night.
He needed the truth.
"What's the wager?"
His voice, beneath the brass mask, was steady and resonant—like iron striking iron.
Suddenly, the bull-masked man burst into laughter, genuine and wild. Sabo clapped loudly, the sound sharp and frenzied, like the last revelry before doomsday. Leaping down from his chair, his short figure staggered toward the edge of the stage, as though he were a king surveying his grand festival.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
He roared.
The dancers below halted and looked toward the diminutive man upon the platform. He did not resemble the Sabo they once knew—but here, the mask was all that mattered. Whoever wore the bull mask ruled the feast.
Sabo could not contain his joy. To a man marked by death, even a flicker of pleasure becomes overwhelming.
"Let the ball… begin!"
At his command, the orchestra's melody abruptly twisted. Gone was the graceful splendor—what surged forth was a dirge of madness and mourning. Violin strings wailed like saws cutting through living bone, the music becoming a symphony of human sorrow.
Servants emerged from the shadows—not with gold or jewels, but trays filled with hallucinogens. Guests picked them up casually, exposing the inside of their wrists—smooth skin marred by countless puncture marks. They injected themselves with practiced ease.
And thus the gates of Heaven opened—wide—for the damned.
It was a revelry before the apocalypse—ethics discarded, morality abandoned, humanity's darkest desires unleashed. Eve stared at the nightmare unfurling before her—blood-scent in the air, and blood itself stirring, eager to join the depraved celebration.
"Stay calm, Inspector. This is only the beginning."
A cold hand gripped hers—like ice freshly thawed, dragging her from the illusion.
"Keep your focus. You don't want to end up like them, do you?"
Lloyd's voice snapped her awake.
She gasped violently as sweat soaked the inside of her mask.
"What… what was that?"
Fear trembled in her voice. For a moment she felt the world shatter before her eyes—then twist and rebuild itself into something monstrous.
"Hallucinogens. The air is thick with their vapors—though the effect is still mild."
He drew a sharp dagger—one hidden beneath Eve's gown—and pressed it back into her hand. The weight of a weapon might grant her a fragment of security.
"So this is the true face of the masquerade… A grand feast of euphoria and ruin."
Lloyd's gray-blue eyes remained clear—untouched by the toxins in the air.
"Of course. These people are wealthy beyond need—mere riches no longer satisfy them."
Sabo descended from the edge of the platform and returned to the gambling table. From his incomplete hand he placed a single coin atop the table, exactly between them.
"Win once, and I answer one question."
He raised a single finger.
"And if I lose?"
"Then you answer one for me."
"I'm surprised you value me so much." Lloyd remarked. He had expected Sabo to demand a finger—or a hand.
"Well, you are the Iron Thorn of Borrel, Mr. Holmes. In a way, it's because of you that I became Sabo—became leader of the Green Sharks. You could say you're my benefactor."
Sabo's gaze held no deception—his current position was built upon Lloyd's deeds.
"That is… rather unexpected," Lloyd admitted quietly.
"Naturally. There's a saying in the East—something about cause and effect."
Sabo chuckled.
"I was there during the Red River Massacre six years ago. My size made me easy to overlook—and that's why I survived. Thanks to you, the undercity was reshuffled—and I rose in the chaos."
It was long past… yet Lloyd still tasted the scent of blood when those days were mentioned. His expression froze—like a mask of ice.
Eve stared in shock.
She recalled where she had last heard the name Iron Thorn—from Officer Press. And deeper still—from the history of that massacre. Now, everything connected.
"The foreigner hired by Borrel…
You filled the Thames with bodies that night, shaping Borrel's rise.
Then you vanished.
Only a handful of survivors remember your name—living in constant fear that you would one day return…
to reclaim the lives that should have died."
Lloyd remained silent. He had buried that story long ago.
"So, tell me—what game shall we play, Sabo?"
His calm was absolute, lifeless—like a machine that merely existed.
"How about a coin toss?"
No one expected such a simple game. Sabo toyed with the coin in his remaining fingers, then said:
"You're not that skilled with cards. A veteran against a novice—that's not fair.
You prefer pure chance, don't you?
Then let it be this.
And… let her decide."
He flicked the coin toward Eve. It spun rapidly before her eyes, slowing to a halt in her palm. The metal was worn and ancient, its engraved patterns eroded by countless years of touch—yet faintly, she could still make out an axe and a shield.