Fearless in Adversity (2): Ecstasy, Screams, and Sighs

It was all so sweet. This entire casino. Like the instant food he used to eat back in the 21st century, before he reincarnated as Mikhail. Like cola he would never taste again. Mikhail leaned deep into the sofa, savoring the spectacle unfolding before his eyes. The only difference was that this wasn’t bad for the body. No, it might even be good. After all, he would never step directly into the game himself. He would simply set the stage and watch the humans perform their little antics atop it.

The air itself seemed to ripple. It was the sound of human desires colliding and blending together. The discordant symphony born from hope and despair tangling into one. Especially ridiculous was the man at the roulette table, desperately trying to suppress his ecstasy. From his attire, he was unmistakably a refined noble from the capital. He was doing his utmost to appear indifferent. But Mikhail saw everything.

The tips of his fingers reaching toward the mountain of chips were surely trembling, even if invisible. Likewise, though his expression ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠remained hidden, Mikhail could clearly picture the man’s flushed face. Cold sweat beaded on that wide forehead, yet he pretended to adjust his hair and stealthily wiped it away with his sleeve. Inside, the man was probably screaming, I won! I did it! All his efforts to conceal that joy only laid his excitement bare in the most vulgar way.

Mikhail smiled in satisfaction once more. Gambling houses in this romance-fantasy world came in two varieties. The crude dens in the back alleys, where thugs ran cheap scams on pathetic marks, extorted cash, and buried them in debt. And the gentlemen’s social clubs—boring places where they killed time with cards and stakes that wouldn’t even cover dinner. The former was dangerous, the latter tedious. But this place was different.

Chips instead of money. A labyrinthine layout that completely severed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the outside world and made one forget time. Unlimited top-shelf liquor and snacks. Kind, reliable staff who never lost their smiles. And above all, the absolute integrity of never resorting to tricks. All these elements wove together into a perfect system that eroded human reason and left only the most primal desires.

“If he keeps winning like that…” Mikhail muttered quietly, lifting the glass beside him for a sip. “That guy’s going to get addicted.”

He let out a soft, gleeful chuckle.

Mikhail glanced at Josepina, who sat bolt upright like a doll beside him. Her blue eyes simply reflected the casino scene with cool detachment.

“Doesn’t it look ridiculous to you?” he asked. “Nobles, executives of massive merchant coalitions, high officials—whatever they are—losing their minds over mere random chance and making fools of themselves.”

His voice carried a mix of genuine curiosity and contempt. “Gambling can be fun, and I did work hard to make them this way on purpose. But is it really that easy? Watching them go crazy over a single moment of luck is quite the sight, I’ll admit…”

Memories from the 21st century flickered through his mind. Old men abandoned by their families, riding free subways between racetracks and velodromes, pouring their meager pensions into hopeless bets. Lowlifes who staked their entire lives on illegal private toto sites. People obsessed with stocks, coins, and futures, making investments that were obviously suicidal to anyone watching. They had been desperate.

Man cannot live by bread alone, they say? How true. For them, gambling wasn’t entertainment—it was dreams and hope. The final chance to reverse everything with one big win. Of course, he had seen the occasional news story about rich celebrities or businessmen getting caught on overseas gambling trips, but those were merely the follies of a privileged few. Generally speaking, gambling had always belonged to the underclass. Unlike the nobles, high officials, and wealthy gentlemen currently enjoying themselves in this temporary casino.

Of course, that was excellent news for him. The richer the marks, the fatter the house.

“They already have so much money. Why do they act like this?” To Mikhail, gambling was nothing more than a tool to relieve boredom. He could enjoy mind sports like Texas Hold’em or mahjong, but purely luck-based games held no appeal. In his own estimation, he was a gamer, not a gambler. No matter how much he won in one sitting, accumulated losses would quickly bore him. He would grow irritated and fling the cards or dice away in disgust.

Josepina, who had been quietly pondering his words, finally spoke.

“It does not appear they are gambling merely to earn a few coins.” Her voice was as cold and dry as ever.

“Oh?”

“They are purchasing ‘victory.’ They are savoring the sensation of being ‘chosen.’”

She paused briefly and pointed toward Jean-Claude at the roulette table.

“Look at that man. He has just won an enormous sum. Yet his joy does not stem from the amount of money. It comes from the fact that, among countless competitors and within unpredictable odds, only he picked the correct number. That thrill. That is what intoxicates him.”

Mikhail’s eyes widened for an instant. He studied Josepina’s face again.

Indeed. She’s competent.

She seemed to grasp the psychology of gambling addiction perfectly. These people weren’t betting to win money. They were betting to prove their luck, to prove their own specialness. To buy the narcotic called victory.

But.

Mikhail still couldn’t fully understand. He leaned back even deeper into the sofa and gave a small snort of laughter.

“Still, that sense of victory only lasts a moment. In the end, the final winner is always the house.”

What was so wonderful about winning inside someone else’s game? That wasn’t true victory. It was merely tasting the scraps the owner tossed you. Like a hunting dog or a falcon.

Even though he knew intellectually that gambling addiction was a mental illness caused by excessive dopamine frying the brain, he still couldn’t comprehend it.

Then, as if something long forgotten had suddenly resurfaced, a mischievous light sparkled in Mikhail’s eyes.

“Suppose,” he asked Josepina, “all their money runs out. Suppose they can no longer taste that sweet victory. Suppose they can no longer purchase the feeling of being chosen.”

“…”

“What would happen then?”

Mikhail paused, then concluded with an extremely satisfied expression.

“After the auction… after this banquet ends… I should have a pawnshop built. Yes, a pawnshop.”

The dull tolling of the bell sliced through the noisy air inside the tent three times. The spinning roulette wheel halted. Hands that had been busily moving across card tables froze in unison. Every gaze turned naturally toward a single point.

At the center of the casino stood a small temporary stage that had been empty moments before. Onto it, Laura Valeriano stepped up without a sound. She carried no brass speaking trumpet enchanted with amplification magic. She simply stood in silence, surveying the room. Yet that alone was enough. All noise vanished as if it had never existed.

At Laura’s gesture, two staff members wheeled a small table draped in velvet onto the stage.

“Tonight, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Far East Maritime Province Development Corporation is pleased to present its first item.”

The velvet cloth slid away. A low wave of admiration rippled across the tent.

Twelve bottles of liquor. But these were no ordinary bottles. Crystal decanters of subtly varying shapes, each clearly hand-blown by master artisans. The transparent liquid within caught the light and sparkled with ethereal beauty. Around the center of each bottle was wrapped a snow-white leather label, upon which the crest of the Grand Duke Mikhail of the Far East Maritime Province had been delicately embroidered in gold thread.

“The auction begins at one hundred gold.”

It was an insane price. Yet the moment Laura finished speaking, hands shot up across the room and bidding erupted.

“One hundred ten!”

“One hundred twenty!”

“One hundred fifty!”

The price climbed at a mad pace. Jean-Claude could not understand. With that kind of money, one could purchase far more valuable artworks back in the capital. Why were these idiots so desperate?

Wait.

A cold thread of reason cut through his thoughts. They weren’t buying liquor. They were buying the story. The right to become one of only twelve owners of a legend at this historic first banquet. The privilege to return home and boast, “I drank the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Mikhail Gold Label, you know!”

Cold sweat trickled down Jean-Claude’s spine. This was no mere drink. It was a work of art. A symbol of status. And above all, rarity itself.

I must have it.

What he needed to present to Her Highness Anastasia was not some “Blue Label”—it had to be this “Gold Label.” It was the story itself.

“Three hundred!”

By the time he shouted, almost screaming, the price had already soared far beyond his expectations. In the end, when the final bottle sold for an absurd sum, Jean-Claude could only bite his lip in defeat.

That much money for a single bottle of liquor? They’re insane. This is pure madness!

Yet the winning bidders showed no regret—only the satisfied smiles of victors. They had obtained something money alone could not buy.

“Next item! The sapphire necklace ‘Sophia’s Tears,’ passed down through generations of the Bostok Marquis family!”

The auction’s fever showed no sign of cooling. Owners of other merchant coalitions took turns on stage, presenting jewels and artworks they had brought. The atmosphere grew hotter still. Every eye burned with naked desire.

Jean-Claude stared at the chips in his hand—the remaining high-value bundles left after exchanging his roulette winnings. It was a substantial sum, but not enough for the auction. Not unless he dipped into his limited personal fortune.

No. My goal is recruiting Laura Valeriano! I cannot afford to get distracted by pointless things!

Securing Laura Valeriano would be a far greater gift than any mere object.

As he struggled to regain his composure, Laura stepped onto the stage once more and spoke.

“We will now reveal the final item.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if steadying her breath. That brief silence sharpened the tension in the room like a blade.

Slowly—ever so slowly—Laura’s hand moved toward her bosom. Hundreds of gazes locked onto that single deliberate motion. What she withdrew was nothing more than a single card.

Murmurs of disappointment and suspicion rippled through the crowd, but they quickly died away.

With a flash, Laura raised the card high. Light burst from her fingertips and painted a colossal shape in the air. A giant card floated overhead. It was clearly no ordinary object. Snow-white leather with the unmistakable glossy sheen of shell cordovan. The color made it obvious—this was not dyed; it came from a white horse. Delicate lettering and a strange magic circle had been engraved upon it in gold leaf that seemed to emit its own light even in total darkness.

The card’s precise appearance was seared like a brand into the retinas of everyone present.

At last, Laura’s lips parted.