The Holy Fist and the Drunken Whale

After the announcer’s ridiculously over-the-top introduction of the contestants finally ended, Liliana sat beside Clement, staring down at the betting slip in her hands. The poster that had been handed out with it featured crude caricatures of the athletes alongside embarrassingly childish nicknames.

How childish. Liliana clicked her tongue inwardly. It was all a joke. No, it was deliberately, shamelessly playing the fool. Then again, maybe events like this were designed to cultivate exactly that kind of atmosphere. The real problem was that the information was so useless she couldn’t even decide who to put her money on.

“Hmm…”

Clement, seated beside her, wore an equally serious expression as he stared holes through the poster, lost in deep contemplation. The sight was so boyishly earnest that Liliana nearly let out a chuckle despite herself.

“Who do you think will win, Your Highness?”

“It’s difficult. They all look strong,” Clement replied, genuinely impressed. “Still, if I had to pick one… perhaps this man?”

He pointed at the fisherman nicknamed Drunken Whale Ivan. In the caricature, the man had a flushed, alcohol-reddened face and a sloppy grin.

“A fisherman would spend most of his time working on a boat, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so his sense of balance must be exceptional. In an obstacle race like this, balance is just as important as raw strength, don’t you think?”

“That makes sense,” Liliana said, nodding. Truthfully, she had been planning to pick someone at random. But once Clement offered a plausible reason, the choice suddenly felt more legitimate. Whatever. It’s free anyway.

This event offered free betting up to a certain amount as part of the grand opening celebration. Without hesitation, Liliana wrote Drunken Whale Ivan in the winner prediction slot. The slip also contained smaller side bets—predicting who would be eliminated at the first obstacle, how many people would finish the course, and so on.

Too complicated. Liliana randomly checked boxes on the detailed sections and handed the sheet to a staff member. As a member of the clergy, she didn’t particularly enjoy participating in gambling. But what could she do? No matter how irritating and arrogant the host was, he was still Clement’s younger brother. As an invited guest, she couldn’t simply ignore basic courtesy.

“All right! First contestant, please step forward!”

At the announcer’s booming voice, the race finally began. One by one, the contestants challenged the course, and the crowd roared with excitement.

“That’s it! Just a little more!”

“So close!”

“You’ve got this!”

Rather than focusing on the race itself, Liliana chose to observe her surroundings. The stands were filled with the empire’s most prominent nobles, officials, and merchants. These were people who normally wouldn’t spare a glance at ordinary laborers, yet here they were, screaming their throats raw, riding every triumph and failure with childlike fervor. It was a truly bizarre and ironic sight.

Clement was the same. His eyes sparkled like a child’s as he sent sincere cheers toward the athletes. The pure innocence of it felt strangely unfamiliar, yet at the same time, it somehow put her heart at ease.

“By the way… doesn’t this feel exactly like noble betting?” Liliana murmured quietly during the brief lull between contestants.

The illegal gambling that secretly thrived among the empire’s upper class—wagering on which family’s heir would succeed, or who would claim the next bishopric. Betting on such granular details in a race seemed no different.

“Now that you mention it, you’re right,” Clement nodded. “It does feel similar. But I suspect Mikhail won’t stop here.”

“Pardon?”

“He’ll probably turn everything in the empire into the subject of this… ‘Toto’ thing. Not just family heirs, but whether it will rain tomorrow, and if so, how much. He’ll make bets out of the most trivial things, won’t he?”

Clement’s eyes were shining with admiration. “Mikhail really is incredible.”

He’s going to turn the entire world into his personal gambling den? For a moment, Liliana was at a loss for words. If Clement was right, that scoundrel viewed the whole world as nothing more than his own giant playground. The arrogance and blasphemy of it sent chills down her spine. How on earth did he plan to handle the consequences?

But Clement either hadn’t thought that far, or simply found anything his cute little brother did adorable, because he was smiling with pure delight.

“Next up! It’s Drunken Whale Ivan’s turn!”

At the announcer’s shout, Liliana snapped back to attention. The man took one deep breath, then burst forward at the signal.

The crowd’s roar surged like a tidal wave. Liliana watched the fisherman tackle the obstacle course for a moment before turning her gaze toward the VIP seats on the opposite side. Mikhail was there, happily chatting with Laura and Josepina.

As if sensing her stare, Mikhail turned his head. Their eyes met across the distance. Then, with deliberate theatricality, he puckered his lips and made an exaggerated kissing motion toward the person beside him. He followed it up by flashing both thumbs up and winking.

The frivolous, cheeky gesture nearly made Liliana frown. Instead, she smoothed her expression and offered the sweetest, most benevolent smile in the world. Slowly, she raised her right hand. A pure white holy aura gently coiled around her fist. She opened and closed it a few times, waving at Mikhail with angelic grace.

Mikhail’s face instantly flooded with horror. He recoiled so violently he nearly tumbled out of his chair. He looked as if he had just seen the most terrifying thing in existence. It was an absolutely terrible performance. He was clearly mocking her.

That scoundrel is completely insane. Liliana made up her mind. The next time she met him alone, she would definitely drive a holy-power-infused fist straight into his solar plexus.

Just as she was quietly vowing revenge—

“Ohhh! Ivan has cleared the first obstacle!”

Clement’s excited voice pulled her attention back to the course. In her vision, the fisherman was nimbly crossing the first obstacle—a wobbling log bridge. Clement pumped his fist in joy, as thrilled as if he had completed the course himself.

Seeing that bright, pure expression, the irritation and annoyance that had been boiling inside Liliana melted away like snow. A faint smile lingered on her lips.

“Ivan! Ivan!”

With the final contestant’s finish, the thunderous cheers that had filled the plaza gradually died down. The first event commemorating the grand opening of the Far East Maritime Province Tourism Special Zone—Human Racing—ended in a landslide victory for the fisherman known as the Drunken Whale.

The crowd poured out of the stands like the tide and flowed straight into the casino. Marco, son of a prominent merchant, Auguste from a newly risen noble house, and Franz, a fourth-rank official from a prestigious noble family. The three men had been friends since their days at the Imperial Academy, and their bond remained rock-solid even after their paths diverged.

“So that Ivan guy actually won,” Franz muttered, tossing a chip onto the roulette table. The ball clattered across the red and black squares.

“We only got one winner right. The payout’s pathetic.”

“It was free betting, wasn’t it? That’s something,” Auguste replied, accepting a cocktail from a waiter. The pale pink liquid in the clear glass sparkled beautifully beneath the chandelier light.

“What were we going to do with pocket change anyway? Just donate it to the church or something,” Marco said without taking his eyes off the roulette wheel. His voice carried the easy confidence of someone from a wealthy merchant family that didn’t sweat small sums.

Click, click, clatter… The ball finally settled on black 26.

“Damn it,” Franz cursed under his breath.

“Stop sulking and drink this. It’s called a ‘Cosmopolitan,’ apparently.” Auguste handed him an identical cocktail.

“Thanks. Though ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the name’s certainly flashy. Cosmopolitan? What the hell does that even mean?” Franz grumbled as he took the glass.

“How should I know? Marco’s drinking a ‘Mikhail Gimlet,’ and the one I had earlier was an ‘Espresso Martini.’ Apparently His Highness Mikhail ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠developed all the recipes himself…” Auguste shrugged.

“Well, does it matter? As long as it tastes good.”

“True enough.”

Franz nodded easily and took a sip. The sweet-tart flavor with a sharp kick on the tongue was surprisingly pleasant.

The three men played several more rounds of roulette in comfortable silence. They won some, lost some, but since none of them had wagered serious money, no one was particularly invested in the outcome. They were simply enjoying the cheerful atmosphere of being together with old friends.

That was when it happened.

“Waaaaaaaaah!!!”

A thunderous, ground-shaking cheer erupted from one corner of the casino. The sound was so massive and overwhelming that it swallowed every other noise around the roulette tables in an instant. All three men turned their heads at once.

There stood a massive gaming table of a type they had never seen before. A huge crowd had gathered, regardless of social status—nobles and commoners, merchants and soldiers, even servants—all packed together, shouting at the top of their lungs toward a man holding dice at the center of the table.

“So that’s the rumored ‘Craps’…” Marco murmured, entranced.

“The atmosphere is no joke,” Auguste said, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“It’s on a completely different level from those refined card games in salons and clubs. It feels… raw. Like pure excitement.”

“I heard His Highness Mikhail personally registered the copyright for that table,” Franz recited information he had picked up. “Copy it for business and you’ll be in serious trouble. So authentic Craps can only be played here.”

“Still… there are plenty of knockoffs,” Auguste snorted. “Crude versions you find in back-alley gambling dens. We have reputations to uphold—we can’t be seen in places like that.”

“Speaking of which, didn’t Baron Blackthorn get stabbed to death recently?” Marco suddenly recalled.

“I heard he got completely hooked on Craps after the last auction, started sneaking into illegal gambling dens frequented by commoners, and eventually met his end.”

Franz let out a small laugh and said indifferently, “Natural causes.”

“Puhahaha!”

“Kkhk…!”

At Franz’s deadpan remark, Marco and Auguste burst out laughing simultaneously.

“Who knows,” Auguste added, wiping tears from his eyes. “Maybe his younger brother hired an assassin over the inheritance.”

“Could’ve been the wife,” Marco chimed in. “Everyone knew Baron Blackthorn was very enthusiastic about ‘disciplining’ her.”

Their mischievous jokes only made the three laugh harder. After a long bout of laughter, they turned their attention back to the Craps table. The man who had thrown the dice must have done well, because the entire area had turned into a full-blown festival. Winners and losers alike were mingling together, sharing in the joy.

There were no losers or winners there—only pure ecstasy and excitement.

“At this rate… how are we supposed to enjoy any other social events?” Franz said, genuinely impressed.

“You’re right,” Auguste nodded. “Texas Hold’em has become quite popular in the capital since the last auction, but it can’t compare to the atmosphere here. That’s ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still business and social networking at the end of the day.”

“Exactly. By the way, I’m really glad we didn’t attend that auction,” Marco sighed. “If we had, waiting for the official opening would have felt like hell.”

“No, we shouldn’t have come to this grand opening either,” Auguste piled on. “How are we supposed to wait for the official opening now?”

As soon as his complaint ended, the three burst into cheerful laughter once more.

“They’ll sell membership cards when it officially opens, right?” Marco asked, suddenly serious. “That ‘Eternal Special Membership Card’ or whatever is impossible to buy even with money… but regular membership cards should be obtainable, don’t you think?”

Auguste and Franz nodded at the same time. They would probably be coming here quite often.

“I’m getting tired of roulette,” Marco said, handing his remaining chips to the dealer and standing up. “Shall we go try that?”