Chapter 182: Roshambo

I decided—for the moment, anyway—that my smartest play was to perch quietly and watch, like some patient predator eyeing a herd of overconfident gazelles at the watering hole—except the gazelles were wealthy nobles and the watering hole was a gambling scam disguised as a children’s game.

So I melted into the crowd, letting the occasional wandering hand graze my ass or the increasingly inventive whispered propositions slide off me like rain on silk, and fixed my attention on Lloyd.

He was magnificent.

Noble after noble swaggered forward, each one radiating the unshakable confidence of someone who’d never lost at anything that truly mattered to them.

They paid their entrance fee—a casual hundred crowns tossed onto the table like pocket change, which, for them, it probably was—and positioned opposite Lloyd, chins high, eyes narrowed, channeling the grim determination of a knight facing a dragon rather than a man about to demolish them at rock-paper-scissors.

A tall elven woman with silver hair that probably required a dedicated servant and a small fortune in product went first. Her movements were precise and calculated, stating she was clearly someone who thought herself clever. She lasted two rounds before Lloyd’s paper covered her rock, and she walked away shaking her head in disbelief while the crowd cheered on.

Then came a dwarf merchant with a beard so elaborate it had its own structural support system, who lasted exactly two rounds before throwing scissors into Lloyd’s rock and cursing in three different languages simultaneously.

A fox beastman followed, his tail twitching with nervous energy, convinced his heightened reflexes would give him an edge. They didn’t. Lloyd beat him after he’d played rock twice and the fox slunk away looking personally betrayed by his own biology.

The pile of crowns behind Lloyd grew with each passing challenger, rising higher and higher until it stopped being merely impressive and started approaching “small dragon’s hoard” territory.

I was about fifteen cycles deep—watching nobles of every description try and fail, their strategies ranging from “pure random chance” to “staring intensely at Lloyd’s hand like that would reveal his future choice through sheer force of will”—when I noticed something profoundly off.

Perfect.

Lloyd was perfect.

Not in the aesthetic sense, though that were certainly true—but in the statistical sense. He hadn’t lost a single round. Not one. Across fifteen different opponents, multiple matches each, probably close to fifty individual throws at this point, and he’d won. Every. Single. Time.

That was borderline impossible. Actually, scratch that—it was impossible if we were operating under the assumption that this was a fair game governed by random chance and human psychology.

My lips curled into a smirk then, because I knew instinctively, with the kind of certainty that comes from being an agent of chaos myself, that this man had to be cheating.

There was no other explanation. The math didn’t work. The probability was so astronomically low it might as well not exist.

The only question was how

?

I ran through the possibilities with the cold, methodical precision of someone who’d devoted serious study to the art of rule-breaking.

Forms of telepathy were as elusive as spatial magic in this world—complete anomalies, theoretical constructs that existed in dusty tomes but never in actual practice, unknown even to the greatest scholars who’d dedicated entire lifetimes to cataloging magical phenomena. If Lloyd was reading minds to predict his opponents’ choices, he’d be the first person in recorded history to manage it, and that seemed… unlikely.

Time magic? Even more rare. Prediction magic? Basically mythology at this point.

I considered that maybe he was modifying his body with incarnic magic somehow—enhancing his reflexes to see his opponent’s throw before committing to his own, moving faster than perception could track. But no. Even with my elven sight, I couldn’t detect a single oddity in his movements, the subtle tells that betrayed magical enhancement.

Lloyd’s movements were simple. Inconspicuous. His hand pumped three times like everyone else’s, his throw came at the same moment, there was no delayed reaction or superhuman speed. Just… normal human motion executed with casual precision.

And yet.

There was something else nagging at me, something I couldn’t quite identify—like trying to remember a word that sat just on the tip of your tongue, or noticing a pattern without being able to articulate what made it so. It hovered at the edge of my consciousness, frustratingly out of reach.

All of a sudden, somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I whipped around, hand snapping up in a reflexive guard, only to come face-to-face with Willow.

She looked infuriatingly composed for someone who’d been the enthusiastic center of a guard sandwich barely fifteen minutes earlier. Her skin was still gleaming with a sheen of sweat and assorted evidence as she dragged her tongue slow and deliberate along her lower lip, collecting a thick streak of cum with the lazy satisfaction of someone savoring the last bite of a dessert.

“Relax, darling,” she purred, eyes sparkling with leftover mischief and fresh intent. “It’s only me.”

I sighed in relief, some tension I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying releasing from my shoulders. “You made it,” I whispered, keeping my voice low as the nobles around us began pointing at the two of us with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion.

“Obviously,” Willow whispered back, leaning in close so our conversation wouldn’t carry. “Did you really think two guards and a desk attendant could keep me occupied forever? I have stamina, darling. They, unfortunately, did not.” She paused, glancing around at the crowd. “Though I notice you’ve been standing here watching instead of actually doing anything. Having second thoughts?”

“Gathering intelligence,” I corrected primly. “There’s something wrong with this whole setup. Lloyd’s winning too consistently. He’s cheating, I just can’t figure out how yet.”

Willow’s expression shifted into something more serious, her emerald eyes tracking to Lloyd who was currently demolishing another challenger. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely certain,” I confirmed. “The question is whether I can beat him anyway. Which reminds me,” I paused for a moment. “Do you think you’ll be able to secure me a hundred crowns?”

Most of the nobles around us were focused on the current match, watching with rapt attention as Lloyd claimed yet another victory. But a few were still staring at us, their expressions ranging from “what’s a slave doing here” to “I would very much like to purchase that slave for reasons I won’t say aloud but are extremely obvious.”

Willow’s face split into a confident grin. “Please. You’re talking to someone who just serviced half the guard downstairs and convinced them it was their idea to let me through. Getting money from horny nobles who think tipping well will get them special attention? Child’s play.”

“You’re incredible,” I breathed with genuine appreciation.

“I know,” she replied smugly, then melted back into the crowd before anyone could decide her presence was worth investigating more thoroughly.

Just then, the woman Lloyd was facing—an elegant noblewoman with dark skin and elaborate braids piled high on her head—threw scissors straight into Lloyd’s waiting rock.

Lloyd’s grin went absolutely wicked as he stood from his seated position, offering her a hand up with exaggerated chivalry. “My lady,” he said with mock solemnity, “you played valiantly. Your scissors were sharp, your paper was smooth, your rock was… adequately firm. Alas, the fates were not with you today.”

She laughed despite herself, accepting his hand and standing with considerably more grace than Cornelius had managed. “You’re absolutely terrible,” she said, but her tone carried affection rather than genuine criticism. “And you’re going to run out of opponents eventually. What will you do then? Play against yourself?”

“I’ll finally achieve enlightenment and become one with the concept of roshambo itself,” Lloyd replied seriously. “Transcend this mortal plane and exist purely as the platonic ideal of rock-paper-scissors. It’s been my dream since childhood.”

The woman laughed again, fanning herself with one hand as she walked away, immediately getting swarmed by other noblewomen who wanted to hear about the experience up close. They clustered around her like she’d just returned from an expedition to unexplored territory, their questions overlapping in urgent whispers.

Lloyd turned to face the crowd again, spreading his arms wide in that ringmaster gesture he’d come to perfect. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he called out, his voice carrying effortlessly across the space. “Another victory for your humble—” he paused for comedic effect, “—and admittedly quite talented champion! Is there no one who can dethrone me? No challenger brave enough to face the terrible burden of my success?”

I stepped forward before he could continue his speech, pushing through the final layer of nobles until I stood at the edge of the cleared space in full view.

“I’ll challenge you,” I said clearly.

The entire room froze.

Complete. Absolute. Silence.

The kind that crashes down when every single person realizes, all at once, that something deliciously unprecedented was about to happen and their brains needed a second to catch up. And then the whispers began—quiet at first, but building rapidly into a susurrus of scandal and confusion.

“Is that a slave?”

“What’s a slave doing up here?”

“Whose property is that?”

“Someone should remove him—”

“Look at that body though—”

“Can slaves even gamble? Is that legal?”

“I don’t think that’s the pressing question—”

Lloyd stared at me for a second, his expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and then settling somewhere in the vicinity of delighted disbelief.

A snicker escaped him—small, almost polite—then grew, his shoulders shaking as tears gathered at the corners of his eyes from the sheer effort of containment.

Then he surrendered completely.

He burst out laughing, the sound rich and unrestrained, slapping the low table hard enough to send the remaining coin purses bouncing and clinking like startled birds.

“What—” he wheezed, trying to speak through his gasping, “—what is a slave doing on the exclusive second floor of the city’s most prestigious hot spring?” He wiped at his eyes, his laughter infectious enough that a few people in the crowd started chuckling along. “No, seriously, I need to know—whose property are you? Because your master either has absolutely no control over you, or they’ve sent you here as some kind of elaborate prank and I respect that immensely.”

I brushed those questions aside with a casual wave, already moving closer to the table with confident strides. “Does it really matter who I belong to? Or are you just stalling because you’re nervous?”

That got his attention. His laughter cut off abruptly, though his grin remained.

“I mean,” I continued, settling into a stance that radiated casual confidence, “you’ve been crushing nobles left and right—people with actual money, actual status, actual pride to defend. But a slave? That’s beneath you, isn’t it? Not worth your time. Probably wouldn’t even be a challenge.”

I let the words hang for a moment, watching his expression carefully.

“Unless,” I added thoughtfully, “you’re worried that losing to a slave would be significantly more humiliating than losing to anyone else here. Which would make sense. Very rational fear, honestly. I’d be nervous too if I were you.”

Lloyd’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you trying to manipulate me through reverse psychology?” he asked, his tone amused. “Because that’s adorable. Really. Like watching a kitten try to intimidate a wolf.”

“I’m trying to get you to play me,” I said simply. “Is it working?”

For a long moment he just stared at me. I could practically see him weighing his options, calculating angles, trying to figure out what my game was. Then his expression shifted into something genuinely interested—like he’d just found a fascinating puzzle box and couldn’t resist trying to open it.

He turned to address the audience, his arms spreading in that familiar gesture. “What do you think?” he called out to the crowd. “Should I give our ambitious slave here a chance? Let him try his luck against the undefeated champion?”

The crowd roared their approval—not because they thought I’d win, but because this was novel, different, more interesting than watching another stuffy noble get crushed and try to pretend they weren’t devastated.

“Crush him!”

“Make the pretty boy cry!”

“Gods, this is the best show we’ve had in years!”

Lloyd held up a hand, quieting them with practiced ease, before his grin took on a sharper edge. “Alright, alright… there’s just one problem,” he said, his gaze returning to me. “The entrance fee. Surely a slave doesn’t have a hundred crowns just lying around to—”

A sharp whistle cut through the air from the edge of the crowd—Willow’s signal—followed immediately by the arc of a small coin purse sailing through the air toward me. I caught it with one hand without even looking back, the motion smooth and practiced. Then I flicked my wrist and sent it sailing onto the table, where it landed with a heavy, satisfying clink of metal on wood.

Lloyd blinked in genuine surprise, his eyebrows rising as he looked from the purse, to me, and back again. Then his grin widened, sharpening into something equal parts impressed and downright ravenous for whatever fresh chaos I was about to unleash.

“Well then,” he said, settling back into his seated position and leaning forward with his chin resting on the backs of his hands. His brown eyes sparkled with anticipation and challenge, fixed on me with the kind of focus that suggested I’d just become the most interesting person in the room. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

I sat opposite to him, crossing my legs and meeting his gaze with a confidence that was maybe seventy percent genuine and thirty percent performance.

Behind me, the crowd pressed closer, hungry for this unprecedented spectacle. And somewhere in the back of my mind, that nagging sensation—the feeling that I was missing something crucial—intensified.

But it was too late to back out now.

The game was about to begin.

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