"Death roulette?" Sabo eyed the silver revolver, only one of its six chambers loaded.

  "You know the rules—you go, I go… Though I’ve always thought the odds are just fifty-fifty: live or die," Burton muttered, placing the revolver in the center of the table, facing Sabo’s spread of playing cards like a lone knight against an army.

  "Truthfully, I don’t need to play this." Sabo suddenly shook his head. This was his domain; he held absolute power. Burton was a mere pawn, easily crushed.

  "Yes, you do."

  Another gun emerged—a wooden-stocked rifle carved with intricate patterns, silver filigree and a line of poetry etched into its frame. Eve stared at it, stunned. She knew her skirts couldn’t hide such a weapon—where had Burton gotten it?

  He offered no explanation. The Winchester leveled at Sabo, so close that a single pull of the trigger would splatter Sabo’s brains across the table.

  "Was this your plan all along?"

  "Yes. Find you, put a gun to your head. Risky, since you’re Green Sharks’ leader and I’d never escape alive. But you don’t want your empire to collapse, do you?" Burton’s gaze was ice.

  "No more games, Sabo. I win, you talk. You win, I leave."

  Sabo’s expression hardened—being held at gunpoint in his own den was intolerable. But after a pause, his confident smirk returned.

  "No. The stakes are too low."

  "Then add these." Burton leaned on the gambling table, radiating confidence.

  "Your hands?" Sabo noted Burton’s sleeves, scars visible on his exposed wrists.

  "Everything’s a stake in gambling."

  Sabo finally studied the man before him. Burton was unlike any opponent—rare as a pearl in sand, his black coat hiding boiling blood.

  Wordlessly, Sabo knew he had to play. Otherwise, Burton would pull the trigger without hesitation.

  "I hate men like you—obsessed." Sabo gripped the revolver, finger on the trigger, watching for any reaction. But behind the brass mask, Burton’s gaze was stagnant, like the North Sea’s icy calm before a storm.

  "I’ve played this many times. It’s not about luck—it’s about who fears death more. Flinch, and you lose." Sabo pulled the trigger. Click. Sweat trickled under his mask, but he stayed composed, setting the revolver back.

  "I know. It’s a war of wills. Winners are either unshakable… or suicidal maniacs." Burton took the revolver, pressing it to his temple without pause.

  "Which are you?" Sabo asked.

  "You’ll see."

  Trigger pulled. Empty. Burton tossed the gun back. Two shots fired, four chambers left—one bullet hidden inside.

  The air grew stifling. The orchestra’s melody turned martial, like a wartime march, driving tension like a tide. The revolver’s engraved ghosts and gods seemed to writhe, slaying each other before burning to ash in the relief.

  "Brave." Sabo praised, lifting the revolver again. This time, it felt heavier, as if anchored. Burton’s voice cut in:

  "All gamblers are desperate. We rely on ruthlessness. Show fear—even a flicker—and you’ve lost. Like a swordsman hesitating: one moment’s doubt costs your head."

  "Think I’m afraid?" Sabo snapped, feeling mocked. He tugged the trigger, but it refused to budge, his hand trembling. Images flooded him—Burton’s icy eyes, the North Sea’s relentless cold.

  Another click. Empty. Sabo exhaled, feigning calm. Three shots left. By sequence, even if the next was empty, Burton would face the final bullet on the third round—certain death.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Burton raised the gun slowly, seeming to realize the odds. He hesitated.

  "Scared? You can still quit. I’ll take your hands, let you live." Sabo pressed, knowing it was psychological warfare. Break the enemy’s resolve, and victory was his. His other hand gripped a gun under the table—gamblers were unpredictable.

  Eve’s face paled. She tugged Burton’s sleeve, begging him to stop. The "fifty-fifty" odds were lies; death loomed closer with each round.

  "Are you mad?"

  Burton turned to her. The girl was radiant, even behind her mask—fit for a Phoenix princess. She reminded him of steam tram rides to the city’s edge, where green fields met blue skies, no smokestacks, no clouds—a paradise. She was his paradise.

  "Today is my lucky day. Today, and every day after."

  His voice was frenzied, excitement blazing through the mask—this was the mania of a cornered gambler. He pinched her pale cheek, then faced Sabo.

  "You’ve lost."

  "Lost?!" Sabo hadn’t expected this—pleas for mercy, yes, but not defiance.

  "Yes. Psychological warfare, as you said. If you’re trying to shake me, you’ve already doubted your own victory."

  Trigger pulled. Empty.

  A chill ran through Sabo. This man had planned every move—a pure pragmatist, ruthless in pursuit of his goal.

  "Sabo, I win."

  Another pull. The cylinder spun, gears grinding, sparks flying—nothing. The bullet remained, cheated by fate. Burton had navigated the empty chambers as if he knew their order, leaving death for Sabo.

  One shot left. The muzzle aimed at Sabo.

  Sweat poured under the bull mask. From start to finish, this game had been Burton’s trap. Only a maniac could survive such odds.

  "Honor the bet, Sabo."

  Burton’s brow was dry, as if flirting with death was routine.

  "Aren’t you afraid I’ll renege?" Sabo hissed.

  "Only if you’re willing to sell your dignity."

  The price was dignity—sacred to some, meaningless to others. Sabo, a Viking, still clung to old beliefs; losing dignity meant eternal exile from Valhalla.

  Their eyes locked, like swordsmen at a crossroads—only one would walk away.

  Eve watched as sweat dripped from Sabo’s mask, staining the table like blood. A cruel choice: dignity or betrayal.

  "Dammit!"

  Sabo yanked the hidden gun from under the table, but Burton was faster. The silver Deathknell pressed to Sabo’s temple. Before he could fire, a blur of steel flashed.

  A severed arm flew, pistol still clutched in its grip. Blood sprayed the table. Sabo’s scream died in his throat as a blade slit his windpipe. He collapsed, lifeless, as a new figure took his seat—face horribly deformed, a twisted smile on his lips.

  "Mr. Burton Holmes. A pleasure."

  The man picked up Sabo’s bloodied mask and wore it. The bull’s eyes seemed to glow with demonic glee, blood pooling in its carved grooves.

  "Likewise… Mr. Sabo," Burton said, smirk widening.

  The air thickened, heavy as lead.

  The night’s gamble was far from over.