An Unwanted Victory
The air was heavy. The desires and resignations of countless people tangled together, pressing down on the lungs like thick, viscous mud. It was a hyper-turbo blind structure—blinds and antes climbing every fifteen to twenty minutes—so the density of each hand was brutal. Time itself seemed to warp under the pressure of perception, stretching and contracting until it became impossible to tell exactly how many hours had passed. The clock insisted it had only been six or seven. But every single second clung, sticky and horrible.
Of the twenty tables at the start of the tournament, only four remained. Erika Cage had single-handedly shattered two of them. The number of players she had eliminated, directly or indirectly, was already beyond counting on one hand. Overwhelming skill. She was the Apocalypse incarnate. Even those eliminated by others lingered around the tables like ghosts, watching the survivors with eyes full of jealousy and envy. Those sticky gazes stabbed into Erika’s back like daggers.
The journalists circled like hyenas, sniffing for a scoop, etching the hellish scene onto their notepads.
Erika stared silently at the two cards in her hand. Meaningless scraps of paper. The outcome of this hand had already been decided.
“Big blind is in, so it’s time for table balancing,” the dealer announced.
The cold water slapped against her face. Erika instinctively held her breath. The heat in her flushed cheeks cooled, and her mind snapped back into focus. She splashed another handful of water from the sink over her face. In the mirror, her expression was as blank as ever, but her eyes were faintly bloodshot with fatigue and excitement.
She let out a short sigh and buried her face in a towel.
Is this fun?
The tournament had been fun. At least at first. Reading the moves of renowned gamblers, exploiting their weaknesses, and stripping them of everything—it had been thrilling. But now…
It’s just… whatever.
Even winning was starting to bore her. The opponents were too predictable. The ones blinded by greed who overplayed their hands. The ones paralyzed by fear who folded everything. The ones who self-destructed with clumsy bluffs. They were all the same. No different from the preliminaries. In the end, they were all pathetic opponents who would kneel at her feet.
Still… if tournaments like this keep happening…
A faint, almost invisible smile touched the corner of her mouth. The bigger the stage, the stronger the opponents who would gather. Real players would emerge—ones who would struggle, fight, and claw their way past their limits in order to survive and surpass her.
The face of one particular man flashed through her mind.
Was he the real thing?
Grand Duke Mikhail.
Just the thought of playing against him at the next table made her frozen heart begin to beat again. Erika set the towel down and left the restroom. The twenty-minute break was nearly over.
When she returned to the noisy hall, the lingering heat washed over her skin once more. She headed for her seat. The moment she pulled her chair back—
“Miss Cage!”
A voice as sweet and bright as if drenched in honey came from behind her. Before Erika could even turn, a soft, fragrant handkerchief gently dabbed at her cheek.
“You’ve got beads of sweat on your forehead~ It upsets me so much, you know~”
It was Victoria Mckenzie. With a face full of concern, she meticulously wiped away Erika’s sweat before offering a glass held by her maid. It was cool sparkling water with lemon and herbs floating in it.
“Here, at least drink this~ Your throat must be dry.”
“Thanks.”
Erika gave a short reply and accepted the glass. The sharp fizz cut through the stuffiness in her chest like a cool breeze.
“How are you feeling, Miss Cage? Are you enjoying yourself?”
Victoria linked arms with her, eyes sparkling with anticipation. Erika thought for a moment before answering honestly.
“At first. But now it’s just… meh.”
“Pardon?”
“Winning is… starting to get boring.”
At that moment—
“Kyaaak!”
Victoria let out a shriek so sharp it made ears ring. The surrounding gazes briefly turned their way, but she paid them no mind.
“That’s exactly like you, Miss Cage~! You’re so amazing! Getting tired of winning! Who else but you could possibly say something like that~!”
Her face was genuinely moved as she hugged Erika’s arm even tighter. Strangely, the dramatic fuss seemed to ease the headache that had been plaguing Erika. It felt like throwing open the windows of a stuffy room—refreshing, like a sudden gust of fresh air.
The short break soon ended, and the other players began returning to the table one by one. Among them was the host of the entire tournament.
Mikhail, accompanied by his attendant, sauntered over and plopped down directly across from Erika. He rested his arms on the table and looked at her with eyes full of amusement.
“So, Miss Apocalypse. How about it? Enjoying the tournament a little?”
Erika’s brow furrowed ever so slightly without her permission. She answered in a low, firm voice.
“Cage. Call me Cage.”
Mikhail burst out laughing. “Pfft.” He nodded.
“Yeah, yeah. Got it, Miss Apocalypse.”
He deliberately emphasized her nickname again and grinned.
“Let’s follow the rules and etiquette and have some fun. Lots of fun.”
Once all the players were seated, the dealer began shuffling the cards. The suffocating silence that came right before a new hand began. Victoria’s hot whisper settled against her ear.
“I believe in you~”
“Yeah.”
Erika’s reply held neither hesitation nor bravado. Only arrogant certainty.
Erika’s gaze turned toward the man sitting across from her.
Mikhail. Grand Duke of the Far East Maritime Province. The master of this colossal stage and the source of all this madness.
He lounged lazily in his chair, occasionally snacking on sweets and asking for drinks. He seemed to treat Texas Hold’em as nothing more than a game, a simple amusement. Yet his eyes were deeper and calmer than any other player’s. An abyss. His gaze seemed to swallow everything whole.
This man was strong.
Erika had no choice but to admit it. No—even calling it an admission felt arrogant. It was an undeniable fact, as obvious as the sky being blue or stone being hard. An absolute truth.
Mikhail was strong. Overwhelmingly so. If she dared to measure, he was at least her equal, perhaps even greater.
His play could not be explained by any logic. Mechanical plays based on probability. Steady, textbook moves that steadily collected small pots. At first, Erika had judged him as a “safety-oriented” player.
That had been her first mistake.
The next moment he would charge in with an absurd hand, driving his opponents straight to hell. A bluff that should never work. A reckless all-in that looked like suicide to anyone watching. Yet it succeeded. Opponents crumbled under his momentum or failed to read his intent and collapsed on their own.
It was almost like watching a perfectly staged play.
But that, too, was a trap.
When he returned to textbook play, his opponents would drown in doubt.
Is this a bluff? Or a real hand?
Deception? Or truth?
The moment they hesitated, the outcome was already decided.
He could not be read. The man’s mind was like a forest shrouded in thick fog. The boundary between truth and lies collapsed; everything sank into chaos. The only thing she could read was one fact.
This man is enjoying the current moment.
Yes. He was enjoying it. This suffocating tension. The moment he held his opponent’s soul in his grasp and shook it. Like a child playing with a toy. Like a boy smiling as he ripped the wings off a dragonfly.
Erika unconsciously clenched her fist. The sensation of her nails digging into her palm somehow calmed the boiling frustration inside her.
It pissed her off. The feeling that she was nothing more than his toy. Not even a champion or a fighting dog—just a toy. Every player at this table was “fake.” Only she and Grand Duke Mikhail were “real.” Just the two of them.
“New game begins.”
The dealer’s emotionless voice. New cards were dealt one by one to the nine players.
Erika carefully checked the two cards in front of her.
Queen. Queen. Pocket queens. Not bad. No, an excellent hand.
The air around the table thickened once more. Erika’s heart began to beat just a little faster.
Mikhail. This time. This time, she would rip that mask off his face.
Preflop. A few players in early position folded. Mikhail raised—slightly larger than usual. Erika stared hard at his face. No change in expression. He simply gazed at the table.
I can’t read him.
That was what made him terrifying. Damn it. Damn it all! But she couldn’t fold here. She had pocket queens! Pocket queens! If she ran from even this hand…!
Her odds were…
Erika called. A few other players followed.
The flop. Three cards landed in the center of the table. Spade Q, spade 5, spade 3. Monotone.
‘!’
Erika’s heart sank with a thud. Three queens. Nearly a perfect hand. The probability of winning was overwhelmingly high. But… monotone. Monotone… the seed of a flush. Of course, thanks to the queen in her hand, even another spade would still give her a powerful holding. Unless the opponent had a spade-suited hand.
Erika kept her expression carefully blank. Still, she couldn’t celebrate too soon. The opponent was Mikhail. This could be part of some enormous trap he had set. He might be holding a king or an ace.
Mikhail, who held the initiative in the pot, bet first. A continuation bet. Textbook play. One more player folded. Three remained, including Erika.
She pretended to think for a moment, dragging out the time, then raised. Mikhail’s eyes flicked toward her ever so slightly before returning to his cards.
Not buying it?
No, she still couldn’t tell. The third player agonized before mucking his hand. Now only two remained. Erika and Mikhail. A one-on-one duel.
Mikhail stayed silent for a while. He simply toyed with the chips on the table. The sound gnawed at Erika’s nerves. Time felt like an eternity.
Finally, he spoke.
“Call.”
Erika let out a silent sigh of relief. The hand wasn’t over yet.
The turn. The fourth card fell. Spade 2. Damn it. The fourth spade. The hand she held was incredibly strong. But… with the board this wet… it was meaningless. If the opponent held the spade king or ace… the destination was the abyss…! The abyss of defeat…!
Mikhail checked. It was Erika’s turn.
What now?
How should she play this? Push hard? Or take a turn off? What exactly was Mikhail holding? Ace-queen? Pocket kings? Pocket aces? Or had he come in with a five or three, chasing a one-pair or two-pair?
Would he really bluff with trash like that? If so… victory was hers.
But… she couldn’t know. That fact drove her even crazier.
Erika bet strongly once more. She couldn’t rule out a bluff. If he had nothing, he would die here.
Mikhail remained silent again. He simply stared at her with those quiet eyes. That gaze seemed to pierce straight through her mask. She felt completely naked.
“…Call.”
Once again, he called. A cold sweat trickled down Erika’s spine.
Shit. No way.
Only one card remained. The river. Which way would the goddess of fate turn?
The dealer’s hand moved toward the final card. That instant felt like an eternity.
The card flipped. Heart queen.
“!”
Erika involuntarily held her breath. Four queens. Quad queens! It was like a divine revelation. An unbeatable hand. A perfect victory that could never lose.
But Erika did not move. That was only true in ordinary games…!
Her entire body had frozen solid. She looked at Mikhail’s face. A very faint smile played on his lips. As if he had known everything. As if he had predicted it all.
That smile.
It’s a trap.
This was a trap. Even this perfect victory was part of the enormous trap he had designed. Then what was his hand…? Could it really be… a straight flush? Did he have ace-four suited? Would he gamble on that? No, that didn’t make sense. There was no way. The probability was…
No. Probability meant nothing in front of this man. Only fifty-fifty. Win or lose. Nothing more, nothing less.
Erika’s mind burned white.
It was then that a middle-aged attendant approached Mikhail from behind like a shadow. He whispered something quietly into the duke’s ear. Erika couldn’t hear it. She only saw Mikhail’s brow furrow ever so slightly.
“Ah.”
Mikhail let out a short sigh. He wore the expression of a child whose interesting game had been interrupted. Then he turned to Erika.
“Sorry about that.”
His voice sounded genuinely apologetic.
“I forgot for a moment. It was just… too fun. Definitely not a good look for the host to be in the money.”
Mikhail gave her a slight smile, then flipped his two cards onto the table without hesitation. Fold.
“I’m out. You all enjoy the rest of the game.”
With those few indifferent words, Erika’s world collapsed.
She had won. She had beaten him. But this was not victory. This was charity. Not even that—just…
“Would you like to show your cards?”
The dealer’s mechanical voice. Erika could not answer. She simply stared down at the table with hollow eyes.
Mikhail had already risen from his seat. After whispering something to the dealer, he left the table with Boris. His back grew distant in her vision.
It was infuriating. So infuriating she could die. More humiliating than losing. He simply hadn’t been looking at her from the very beginning. He had only been toying with her. As if he didn’t even know she existed. As if he had no interest whatsoever. Just another player number one. Toy number one. That was all.
She had tried so hard to read his mind, his full strength…!
With a hand trembling from rage, Erika flipped her cards over. Quad queens. The magnificent hand seemed to mock her.
“Quad queens…!”
The surrounding gasps and stares meant nothing. Like the disdainful gazes of commoners during Academy lectures, like the eyes of so-called friends who treated her as either a fighting dog or a champion—everything had lost all meaning.
“For reference, His Highness Mikhail held pocket aces.”
The dealer’s voice struck her heart like a finishing blow.
Erika should have won. Perfectly. The goddess of luck had reached out to her… but Mikhail had left the table before confirming it. Before even realizing his own defeat.
She lifted her head and stared at the spot where Mikhail had been. The empty chair. That chair spoke eloquently of her defeat.
She had clearly won. Yet she had lost. Decisively. Humiliatingly.
Erika gritted her teeth. The taste of bitter blood filled her mouth.
“That… fuck.”