Gacha (1)
The social circles of the capital were always thirsty for fresh gossip. And for some time now, the hottest topic quenching that thirst had been, without question, the strange wind blowing in from the Far East Maritime Province.
The bizarre venture being run by the worthless Seventh Prince Mikhail. A secret playground for the nobility. And the liquor sold exclusively in that place. The tales multiplied and grew more outrageous with each retelling, but no one had actually laid eyes on the real thing. Until today. Until this very moment.
“Alright, everyone, pay attention.”
In the salon of Countess Babari—where the capital’s most distinguished writers and artists gathered—Count Volkov’s voice brimmed with irrepressible pride.
On the velvet-covered table before him rested a single silver tray. Upon it sat a modest collection of objects that nonetheless radiated an overwhelming presence.
A single crystal decanter that seemed to glow with inner light. Two small glasses paired with it. And—
“Whoa, is that really it?”
“Good heavens, is that pure gold?”
What seized everyone’s attention was a small coil of pure gold, twisted like a serpent. It was a masterpiece woven from threads finer than human hair, the very soul of a craftsman poured into every strand.
“That’s the one,” Count Volkov said with a satisfied smile, carefully lifting the crystal decanter. On its snow-white leather label, the crest of ‘Mikhail’ embroidered in gold thread sparkled brilliantly beneath the chandelier.
Mikhail Gold Label.
“When drinking this spirit, you must place the gold coil into the glass first and pour over it.”
He slipped the coil into the glass with the solemn reverence of a priest performing a sacrament, then tilted the bottle.
Glug, glug, glug—
The colorless, transparent liquid flowed down the golden coil, filling the glass.
“I don’t pretend to understand the exact science behind it,” Count Volkov said with a shrug. “But they say it makes the alcohol far smoother and purer. Some kind of filter, I suppose.”
He offered the first glass to the salon’s hostess, Baroness Petrova, with a courteous bow.
“Please, my lady. You have the honor of tasting it first. One of only twelve bottles in the entire empire.”
“Oh, Count, you’re too kind.”
Baroness Petrova covered her mouth with her fan and let out a coquettish laugh, yet her eyes sparkled with naked curiosity. She accepted the glass and took an elegant sip.
“!”
Her eyes flew wide open.
“This… this is…”
“How is it, my lady?”
“It has no taste. No fragrance whatsoever.”
Her words sent a ripple of astonishment through the salon.
“It simply glides down the throat like the finest silk. And that faint, lingering sweetness at the very tip of the tongue…”
She trailed off, simply staring at the glass with an expression of pure ecstasy. The other nobles’ patience promptly evaporated.
“Volkov! Pour me one too!”
“Over here!”
Count Volkov laughed triumphantly and began pouring for each of them in turn. The salon quickly filled with gasps of wonder and delight.
“My god, it’s on an entirely different level from the Blue Label!”
“What in the world is this mouthfeel? It’s smoother than water!”
“It feels like drinking liquid air!”
In truth, the actual flavor wasn’t dramatically different from the Blue Label. But in this moment, that hardly mattered. This wasn’t merely liquor. It was a privilege granted to only twelve people in the empire. Living proof that one stood at the absolute pinnacle of vanity and luxury.
Count Volkov set down his empty glass with a deeply satisfied expression. The flood of praise filling the salon tasted as sweet as if every word had been meant for him alone.
“It’s worth every coin. Truly.”
At his casual remark, Baroness Petrova hid another laugh behind her fan.
“But that banquet—was it truly as spectacular as they say?”
The conversation naturally drifted from the liquor to the event itself. Count Volkov’s eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Spectacular? Oh, it was far more than that. Nothing like the dull little dances you’re imagining.”
“Then what was it?”
Young Viscount Chernov, who had been listening quietly, finally couldn’t contain himself.
“It was a playground. A vast, extravagant, and dangerously addictive one. A playground for adults.”
Count Volkov lowered his voice like a bard spinning an ancient legend.
“The card game called Blackjack was pure adrenaline. Texas Hold’em was a completely new format and surprisingly entertaining. Then there was Craps—throwing two dice. Everyone would cheer for the shooter with one unified voice. It felt exactly like the final night of a festival! I’ve never experienced heat like that before.”
“Baccarat was simple yet strangely addictive. But the real star was the roulette.”
“Roulette?”
“Indeed. That enormous wheel spinning, the silver ball dancing and sliding across it… it was like staring at the wheel of fate itself. I couldn’t look away.”
The entire salon held its breath, utterly captivated by his tale.
“Ah, I truly hope construction finishes soon. When it does, we must all go together.”
At Count Volkov’s words, sighs of envy rose from every corner.
“How unfair! You went and enjoyed it all by yourself.”
“So stingy!”
“Then… shall we entertain ourselves until then?”
With a playful grin, Count Volkov reached into his coat and produced something. It was a small, luxurious booklet that had come as a complimentary gift inside the Mikhail Gold Label box.
“His Highness Mikhail personally provided a rulebook. Well? Shall we try a round of Texas Hold’em right here?”
The salon burst back to life in an instant. Tables were cleared, cards were brought out. Everyone was clumsy at a game they’d never played, but that only made it more enjoyable.
“Is this correct?”
“Ahem, Viscount Chernov! No peeking at another player’s hand!”
“But I don’t know the rules!”
Amid the cheerful chaos, someone casually tossed out a new topic.
“Speaking of which. That Eternal Special Membership Card that came up at the auction… it’s completely insane, isn’t it?”
The hands hovering over cards froze for a moment. Baroness Petrova toyed with her chips as she spoke.
“I knew he was a wastrel, but I never imagined he had that much audacity. Swearing on his own life, then making it so only his blood can authenticate the real thing…”
“He’s no ordinary madman,” Count Volkov said with a wry smile, setting down his cards. “But oddly enough, that very madness makes it more trustworthy. Would a lunatic like that really run a scam?”
“That may be true, but the price is outrageous,” Viscount Chernov said carefully. “I heard the average winning bid was around 240,000 gold… that’s rather steep.”
Everyone at the table nodded in perfect unison.
“Honestly, that sum could buy a fine mansion in one of the capital’s best districts,” Baroness Petrova sighed.
“Even if renting, selling, and inheriting are permitted, is it truly worth that much?”
“Well…” Count Volkov stroked his chin. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to purchase fertile black soil in the south and collect tenant rents? Or buy a respectable chateau with a vineyard? Failing that, start a decent factory.”
“In my view, the most prudent choice would be solid bonds or blue-chip stocks,” Viscount Chernov declared firmly. “Low risk and stable returns.”
“Haha, the youth are pragmatic as always.” Count Volkov chuckled while checking his hand. “Enough of this tedious talk. Let’s focus on the game. My turn, is it?”
Mikhail stared silently at the heavy wooden box resting on his office desk.
Click.
When he released the latch, ninety-three neatly arranged cards were revealed inside. On leather as white as snow, patterns embossed in gold leaf emitted a subtle, elegant glow.
Limited Edition — Only 100 in existence
Blood-bound to the life of Grand Duke Mikhail
Permanent 50% discount and priority access to all facilities
Transferable • Inheritable • Rentable
A pseudo-noble title that cannot be bought with money alone.
Hmm.
Mikhail rested his chin on his hand, sinking into thought.
What the hell am I supposed to do with these?
He had already sold seven. Ninety-three remained.
I should present one to His Majesty the Emperor. That goes without saying.
That left ninety-two.
Auction them again? Mikhail shook his head.
No can do.
The previous auction had been pure pandemonium. The nobles’ excitement over their first exposure to a ‘casino.’ The scarcity of only one hundred cards in the entire empire. And the massive price bubble created by his life-on-the-line performance. All those factors had combined to produce those absurd numbers.
If I hold another auction now, they’ll definitely sell for less than before.
That would damage not only the perceived value of the membership cards but the entire brand image of the project.
I’ll have to wait until the casino is complete and the cards’ actual worth has been proven in practice.
But he couldn’t simply hand them out as bribes, either. The seven customers who had paid serious money for theirs would never stand for it.
“What the fuck? We paid good money and these guys get them for free?” They’d riot in a heartbeat.
There was nothing more foolish than picking a fight with your own customer base. He refused to sound like those pathetic Blizzard employees asking, ‘Do you guys not have phones?’
Besides, I’ve already built enough rapport.
Aside from that minor baron named Jean-Claude, every single buyer was a heavyweight high noble. Expanding his network any further would be more trouble than it was worth.
“Haa… this is tricky.”
Mikhail rose from his seat and walked to the window. Outside, a massive construction site stretched across his view. Thousands of workers swarmed like ants, building his personal kingdom.
The key is raising brand value and generating publicity.
Beyond simply earning money, he needed to transform the Far East Maritime Province into the empire’s premier entertainment destination. For that to happen, these membership cards had to represent something money alone could not buy—something more.
Something that could not be purchased with money.
“Dreams and hope, I suppose.”
Mikhail let out a small, dry laugh.
People always longed for what remained just out of reach.
State-sponsored gambling that everyone secretly loves.
The very thing that made people gamble an entire week’s worth of hope on a single cheap scrap of paper, all while dreaming of a life-changing reversal of fortune.
And a tax for the brain-dead.
Mikhail returned to his desk, pulled out a clean sheet of paper and a pen, and began to write.
“A lottery ticket should do the trick.”