Chapter 111: Pressure

Gate 62 of the thirteenth Heavenly Games. The objective was to protect the land of Lagash against the King of Umma and his forces. The nobles of the city were afraid. They were outnumbered, the king was marching on their doors, and they did not have the manpower necessary to oppose the siege.

Roland Blackwood, then a Commander of the Templar Order, orchestrated a staged withdrawal from key positions, leaving minimal forces visibly guarding Lagash while secretly reinforcing strategic locations from the rear and sides. Furthermore, sensing King Lugal-zage-si’s confidence after previous victories, the Commander feigned disarray and internal strife within Lagash, deliberately spreading false rumors of dissent among Lagash’s ranks to lure the Umma forces into a false sense of superiority.

The Umma forces marched on, thinking with their hearts rather than their heads. They did not anticipate strife or a siege—they anticipated a merciless sack where they would take control of every facet of the city.

They were wrong.

Relaxed and on-route, they were blessed with the picture-perfect location to stop. That was when it happened: an ambush. The players coordinated attacks from concealed positions, encircling and trapping the Umma army within the cunningly devised location, cutting off escape routes.

That day, the Umma side lost half their forces.

The Commander wasn’t done either.

In the span of three days, he twisted a hopeless situation into overwhelming victory. He turned the fear into courage. The enemy forces arrived at the open city doors and came in with caution. Spies were sent. Hours later, the spies returned.

King Lugal-zage-si would ask what happened, only to be slit across the throat.

The king did not recognize his own spies due to his own arrogance; therefore, he never anticipated betrayal. With his death, the special objective was complete. All that remained was the main objective: the defeat of the Umma forces.

The Commander conducted a one-sided slaughter and killed so many soldiers that he personally received the hidden objective—or so they say.

Marshal Roland Blackwood: the greatest advisor in the history of the Templar Order. The Marshal said to be capable of winning any battle. A game of poker was no different, or so everyone claimed. The players from the other table abandoned their game to watch him. Him and him alone. The man with all the chips and all the power. His total number of points was over four billion.

His little smile and his chip stacking told everything. He didn’t have to move a finger. All he had to do was fold in the first round and he would get everything. Jack the Ripper’s mask, the Seven-league Boots, and the billions of points he had accumulated.

Dasha could not taunt him. The chances of not making him fold were close to zero.

“I will give a raise,” Dasha declared.

“Again?” Dionysus looked him up and down. “Are you sure you have anything left?”

Nothing Dasha would say would convince the Marshal to raise anything he had.

Which was why he wouldn’t

convince him.

“Giving up isn’t my style. I am sure the apprentice of Thor would understand,” said Dasha.

“What in Hel does Lord Thor have to do with anything?” Frode narrowed his eyes.

“I raise the legendary iron gauntlets of Thor: the Járngreipr.”

From his inventory, he slammed down the black iron gauntlets. Frode stood from his seat and the spectators muttered.

“How in the world—!? Where did you get that!?” Frode was prepared to march over and slam him for answers. He didn’t, utterly infatuated by the gauntlets. “Those are my masters…no, they are slightly different.”

“So you can tell,” Dasha said. “I am glad. They are custom made. But I am sure you can go to Hephaestus to get a pair made for yourself, or to overwrite my ownership,” he lied.

According to Hephaestus, once an owner was imprinted, it was nearly impossible for that owner to be rewritten. Only the owner, Dasha, could relinquish control. However, in this case, he wasn’t planning on doing such a thing. He was planning to win.

“How much?” Frode asked, quiet.

“How much do you have?”

Frode didn’t answer. “I’ll give you everything I have accumulated over my life for those.”

“Let us start off with five billion points then,” Dasha said.

The mutters grew louder. Dionysus was shocked, hands over his mouth.

“My dear Frode, are you—”

“Dead serious,” Frode said, cutting off the Greek god. “I must have those gauntlets. I can feel the power. It is calling for me. These are more valuable than anything I have.”

“I will match that,” the Marshal declared, to everyone’s surprise. Confidently stacking his chips, he added, “I will use the five billion I have on me, not the points I won.”

’Just as I thought you would. Your original goal here was to get Frode, your so-called ally, under your thumb. Jack is merely a surprise.’

The Marshal was a particular kind of risk taker. The type to sit back and strategize rather than rise to taunts. He thought himself to be superior.

Li Xuanming folded his hands over his lap. He wasn’t participating this time. It must have been out of his budget.

“Fifteen billion,” Dasha drawled out. “Are you sure about these stakes?”

“This is insane,” Dionysus said. “If anyone loses here, then it’s bankruptcy.”

“It is winner takes all,” said the Marshal. “I enjoy those odds.”

“I enjoy your faith. It reminds me of how great the mind can be.” An ominous confidence was added to his voice for once; and for once, there was a shake in the pupil of the Marshal’s eagle eyes. The tension was palpable and continued to thicken as the cards were dealt.

Dasha was blessed with luck: a pair of aces. Frode seemed deep in thought; Dasha suspected a suited king and queen, considering the possibilities, while Marshal Roland Blackwood cautiously examined his cards. Every time he looked, he beheld the the same expression.

Preflop, Dasha decided it was time to enact his strategy. “I raise the stakes to ten billion points.”

“To ten billion…?”

“If everyone agrees…that’ll be thirty billion.”

“Woah.”

The spectator’s gave the effect he intended: anxiety.

Frode snorted. “I will match.”

“Me too,” said Marshal Roland Blackwood.

The flop was dealt: Ace of hearts, king of spades, and seven of diamonds. Dasha held a three of a kind, aces, while Frode smiled to himself. The Marshal’s eyebrows twitched. That was his only tell—the eye area. It was his greatest and most sensitive zone..

So Dasha upped the ante again. “I raise—”

Mutters of confusion.

“—another two billion.”

No hesitation. “I will match that.”

Frode was insane. He was having tunnel vision, matching simply because his desires were telling him to, whereas Marshal Roland Blackwood was taking it slow. Taking it one-step at a time. He closed his eyes for the first time in forever.

“…I will also match.”

Everything was on the line. The mask, the boots, the points. Not a penny was spared. The grand prize pool equated to thirty-six billion points.

“Wow.” Dionysus fanned himself and shuffled the cards. “Is it just me or is it getting hot in here?”

The god put forth the final card: Eight of hearts—

“I raise to fifteen billion total.”

Dionysus barely got to put the card down before Dasha raised the steaks. Frode responded in kind and said, “I will match!”

The Marshal wiped a hand down his cheek. His thoughts were getting to him again. He gleaned at Dionysus, then Frode and Dasha. Hesitantly, he said, “I will match.”

The final community card, the six of diamonds, didn’t alter the standings dramatically. Everybody seemed to be on the same page.

That was, until Dasha raised it again.

“Twenty billion.”

A hitched breath from the Marshal. At the height of tension, at the height of victory, he was unable to make a decision.

“I will match that.” Idiocy from the King of Vikings.

“Are you insane?” The Templar Marshal asked. “If you lose, you’ll lose everything. The Sapphire Order—”

“Like I care about the guild. I need it.” Frode’s eyes were locked onto the gauntlets. “Those are supposed to be MINE.”

Blackwood clicked his tongue and set his gaze onto Dasha. Nothing. Because of the mask, he was unable to read him. His arrogance was catching up to him. He was thinking, “If only I could see his face, I would be able to tell if he was bluffing.”

That wasn’t all.

“How much will I lose if he wins? How much will the Templars?”

He chose to let himself be swayed. He chose to be arrogant. And now…

“I fold.”

Roland Blackwood folded.

Thus, all that remained was for Dasha and Frode to show their hand. The final showdown decided who would win everything.

“Full house, aces over eights,” Dasha declared, throwing forward his cards.

Frode crushed the cards in his hands and roared. “DAMMMMIT! SHIT! SHIT! DAMMIT! THIS IS BOGUS!”

He threw his cards onto the table: kings over queens, narrowly falling short from Dasha’s hand. The Marshal discreetly revealed his own hand: a royal flush. He would have won if he hadn’t folded.

“Any strength can be turned into a weakness. They are two sides of the same coin. Marshal Roland Blackwood, you put the needs of the Templar Order over your instincts. You consider the cause first and then victory.” Dasha didn’t need to move. Magic was worked into the chips and his prize appeared on his side, as did the System transfer details. “You considered for too long and you blinked.”

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