“Finally, a chance to rest,” Eve said weakly. She had been dancing with Burton since they arrived, and the change in music finally allowed her to take a break.

  So far, their infiltration had gone smoothly. No one had noticed their oddities, and no one had approached them for conversation. Instead, curious glances had been cast their way, making Eve nervous.

  “Don’t worry. They’re just curious,” Burton said at the right moment.

  “Such secretive balls have been held countless times. Even behind masks, guests can sense familiarity. With us being new, they must wonder where we came from.”

  “Should we engage in conversation?”

  “Unnecessary. The more you say, the easier it is to slip up.”

  Burton’s acting skills were remarkable. He looked so at ease, as if he had attended many such balls before. His gray-blue eyes scanned the room; in truth, he was also uneasy, but he did not tell Eve. The feeling had grown since he saw the stained-glass windows—relics of churches now placed in this eerie underground space, as if behind them lay a gateway to hell.

  “Eve, have you seen any guards?” Burton asked suddenly.

  “Guards?” The girl looked around. Everything was bathed in the joy of the dance, with no sign of guards.

  “Yes. Since we entered, there have been none except at the very beginning.”

  Burton’s expression was uncharacteristically grave. Sitting in their seats, everything seemed normal, like an ordinary ball. But he had just noticed servants moving through the crowd, carrying trays with coins and gold. The transactions had already begun, or perhaps they had started the moment they entered. Burton had expected some formal speech, followed by Sabo making a grand entrance surrounded by beautiful women, but now the goods being traded were displayed on trays like wine, passed among the crowd.

  Damn it. Sabo was highly unlikely to appear now.

  Tonight’s events had followed a perfect script, but Burton had not anticipated this. Just as he was worrying, a servant approached, carrying a tray with Butcher Coins and gold jewelry. Pretending to be familiar with the process, Burton was about to take out his last few Butcher Coins to dismiss the servant when the servant spoke.

  “Sir, someone invites you.”

  The servant wore a mask, his voice icy, which made Burton feel uneasy in this situation.

  “Invites me?”

  Burton asked again, and the servant stepped aside. On the platform behind him, a man wearing a bull mask was waving at Burton.

  “Eve, ready your weapon. I think we’ve been exposed,” Burton said as he stood up, whispering to Eve.

  The girl’s expression instantly changed, her hand gently resting on her thigh, where a cold weapon lay beneath a thin layer of fabric.

  “What will you do?”

  The girl asked him in a low voice as Burton picked up his pocket watch. It was 1 a.m.

  “Accept the invitation. There’s no escape now.”

  With that, Burton took Eve’s hand and strode forward.

  ...

  This was the highest point of the hall, beneath the stained-glass windows. When Burton had looked up from below, he had seen many people on the platform, but when he arrived, apart from the man who had waved to him, only a servant standing far away remained.

  Despite the warm and joyful atmosphere of the ball, this area was starkly empty and quiet.

  “Welcome, my new friend,” the man said in a welcoming tone, opening his arms. He was powerfully built, a perfect match for his mask, which reminded Burton of Boro’s mask.

  “It seems I’ve been exposed. I want to know how you found me, Mr. Sabo,” Burton said as he and Eve sat across from Sabo. He did not hide anything, speaking directly, still looking composed.

  There was no need for pretense; it would have been ridiculous. In truth, Sabo could have killed them directly instead of inviting them. Sabo smiled slightly—he was the master here, in control of everything.

  “From the moment you boarded the tram, sir. You know this business cannot stand the light. Once the guest list is set, it’s closed. Even bringing new guests requires an old guest to apply to me, but in a place like this… who would reveal it?”

  Everyone wore masks, dancing gracefully on the dance floor.

  “This is heaven, but humans are greedy. No one would share this place with others. So the number of guests only decreases, never increases—let alone your Butcher Coins.”

  The Shrike coin flipped on the table, landing with the shrike side up. Sabo looked at Burton, his eyes seeming to glow beneath the bull mask.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Do you know, sir, that one Butcher Coin can be exchanged for three gold lion coins? Enough for a Lower District family to live for months. And it doesn’t depreciate with prices. As long as you take it to an exchange, you can always get money.

  “The Lower District is a garbage dump. To protect their Butcher Coins, the poor hide them next to their skin, constantly rubbing them to make sure they’re still there. This is their life.”

  “But look at your Butcher Coins—shiny and new, as if they just came from the mint. Only the exalted Boro has such new coins.”

  These details had exposed Burton. He nodded slightly. Now that the truth was out, there was no need to hide. Burton directly took out the silver revolver and pointed it at Sabo. This was a dangerous move, but the distant servant acted as if he saw nothing.

  “Then I assume you recognize this gun.”

  “Boro’s gun, of course I do.”

  Sabo seemed unsurprised by the gun’s appearance, not even flinching. He picked up a nearby wine glass and poured wine as red as blood.

  “It’s called Deathknell, because Boro says when it fires, the sound is like a bell for the dead.”

  When the bell rings and the bullet is fired, the dead rest beneath the earth. Burton looked at the ghosts and gods engraved on the cylinder—the ghosts counterattacking the gods’ domain, then burning to ashes in a sea of fire.

  “I just came to ask a few questions. No need for bloodshed.”

  “But when you came armed, you were already prepared for bloodshed, weren’t you?”

  The two men stared at each other, both showing the same emotion—like hunters meeting on a narrow path. They both knew what would happen next.

  It was just a simple conversation, but the eerie pressure choked Eve. From the moment she sat down, she could not speak or even move. She did not resist even when Burton lifted her skirt to take the gun called Deathknell.

  The joyful ball was not disrupted by Burton drawing his gun, but both knew the undercurrent surging beneath the surface.

  “Shall we find a compromise?”

  Burton suddenly lowered the gun, abandoning his tough stance, a confident smile beneath his brass mask.

  “You seem to understand the situation well,” Sabo said, sizing up the man before him, suddenly intrigued.

  “Yes. What would killing you achieve? I’d never escape alive. Your business thrives in secrecy. You must protect not only yourself but also your guests. Behind those masks are powerful figures of Old Dunling. Your existence is their stain. If they join forces, you’ll die for sure.”

  Burton looked at the magnificent hall, unable to imagine how much Sabo had invested here.

  “At your command, guards would surely come to evacuate the guests, then turn this place into a bunker. No one could escape, and no one could enter.”

  Like the hot springs pass of Thermopylae—one man with a rifle could hold the entrance, making it impossible for an army to leave the underground palace, but similarly, no one could break in as long as Sabo held the passage.

  “You won’t oppose Boro, but you’ll just stay silent. I can’t get anything out of you that way.”

  “So what will you do, sir?”

  “Shall we gamble?” Burton’s eyes lit up at the mention of gambling.

  “Gamble?”

  “Yes. Only in a gamble are we equals. Lady Luck favors no one. No blood, no conflict—perfectly harmonious.”

  “Hm… Interesting.”

  Sabo was surprised but agreed. He clapped his hands, and a servant arrived carrying an ornate box. Inside were playing cards, dice, and more.

  “Which shall we play?”

  As Sabo spoke, he shuffled the cards, kings and queens flipping through his hands before spreading them flat on the table like an army deployed for battle.

  Burton shook his head, picking up the revolver again. This time, he opened the cylinder and ejected the bullets one by one.

  “I’m not much of a card player. Compared to calculations, I prefer pure… luck.”

  Five bullets were arranged horizontally and vertically on the table, their brass casings reflecting the three masks. The cylinder was spun hard, making a clattering sound.

  Burton’s voice was soft, reciting familiar words from memory, then said,

  “One in six chance.”