Life-Betting Game
"Life-Betting Game. Great Prophetess Iris. She's the pride of the Holy Kingdom, the one who foresaw droughts and typhoons. For the past ten years, she's held exactly the position you're in now. Nobles and powerful rich folks from across the nation flocked to her for a single consultation with the great prophetess, and that's how she amassed her wealth and power."
One evening, the count summoned me to his office. The reason was obvious. Iris was the only one hounding me like this.
"What makes this woman scary isn't just her connections to the power elite. She's got the media in her pocket too. They say she foresaw a cure for a media mogul's chronic illness. Sound familiar?"
The more details the count shared, the more Iris seemed like my mirror image. She'd proven her prophetic powers, word spread among the elite who became her clients, and in turn, she seized power and riches.
"Anyway, the reason she's coming after you is simple—too simple, almost transparent. Sure, on the surface it's 'demonic pact,' 'unclear origins,' that sort of nonsense. But it's just turf war. She hates losing clients to you."
I could've predicted that much myself. But what puzzled me was this:
"It's embarrassing to say it myself, but... I've already built ties with many high-ranking figures. They've been thrilled with my consultations."
"Thrilled doesn't cover it. Plenty are slipping me bribes for another session. I've rolled in the political mud long enough to know. I've got ears and eyes everywhere."
"Then why is Iris still poking at me, knowing about those connections? Isn't she afraid of backlash?"
The moment I shut down my shop over her attacks, she'd face blowback. The big shots who favored me wouldn't let her off easy. She had to know that. So where did her confidence for this reckless assault come from?
"Bottom line: your fans will stay silent in this mess. She built her elite network first—and among them are folks with far more pull than yours. Take this one, for example."
The count slid a document my way. It featured a photo and profile.
"Rudolph Finigan. Aka the Black Cardinal. The Black Cardinal?"
I'd heard the name before—and never in a good light.
"He oversees heresy inquisitions. Blocked several zombie terror plots by black mages; no one questions his record. He's Iris's powerhouse backer. At his level, you'd start at marquis in the empire."
Her brazen provocations made sense now. That was some serious backing to swing at me so boldly.
The count lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled. No words, but his sigh screamed fury.
"Tough opponent. But sit idle, and you won't survive. Know why smears and lies terrify? Left alone, people start believing them. Truth stops mattering."
I knew exactly what he meant. As a Korean in my past life, I'd lived through cases that fit perfectly.
"I've already pulled strings in the media. Rallying my politico-business contacts to call out her claims as bogus. But... it's not landing hard enough. Not satisfying!"
He knew the most satisfying fix: hit Iris back, blow for blow. But striking her directly was risky. Touch her, and her elite shields would crush us. It boiled down to whose backers were tougher—and I was on the back foot.
Crisis. And once more, Mom's advice saved me.
Back in Korea, as a top shaman, she'd faced the same. Another mudang, jealous of her gifts and backed by media, pols, and celebs, had smeared her. I remembered it vividly—high school me, dealing with reporters her rival sent to my school, causing chaos.
Mom handled it in one stroke: exposed the rival's dirt on live TV. Brutally effective. The woman crumbled, and Mom came home like she'd swatted a fly, lit a smoke on the sofa, and said:
"When jealous scum scratch at your rep from the shadows, drag 'em into the light where everyone watches. Pull those wriggling worms into the sun, and folks see how ugly they are. They'll self-destruct."
A newspaper lay between us, the count nursing his smoke in frustration. Front page screamed Iris's attacks on me.
I stared at one line.
"Count."
"Speak."
"The answer's staring us in the face, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Prove her lies in front of everyone."
"Sure, that'd be clean. But how?"
I pointed to the headline.
"I want a public debate. With Iris. I'll prove it there."
The count barked a hollow laugh.
"Step into her debate? It's rigged! Traps everywhere to make you look like a fraud no matter what! She owns the networks—they'll sabotage you at every turn!"
I knew. Like with Kaien's grand sorceresses. But they crumbled.
If her confidence was her fat network, mine was my real power. Hers couldn't top mine. I was certain.
"Don't trust my abilities?"
His eyes widened, then narrowed at my calm tone.
"You think I doubt you?"
"No setup survives the truth. I doubt she's better than me. I can win—and clean-solve everything in front of everyone. Satisfyingly."
"Well... yeah, but."
Public debate, huh? Fine, if that's what you want. But with conditions. You tried ruining lives with words? Stake yours too.
"Count, one request."
"Name it."
"Make it huge. Rally every media outlet. Blast that I'm debating publicly. Empire-wide broadcast—let everyone know."
He stubbed his cig, exhaled, and grinned wolfishly.
"Life-on-the-line showdown?"
"Yes. I'll close the shop for prep. You said elites are clamoring for sessions? They'll be desperate."
"Desperate as hell. And hooked on you vs. Iris."
Empire-wide. Elites too—they'd tune in.
"Iris can't back out then."
First strike, no retreat.
"Your call. Let's blow it up. You'll win, right?"
"I will."
"Good. Since you're winning, let's bet big—media bait."
With that, he left. Next day, I learned again:
The count's savvy—turning a spa town into the empire's top tourist spot—was no fluke.
"I'll be away from Yurtel a few days, Mirien."
Mirien, purring like a cat with her head pillowed on my thigh as she stroked my hair, changed expression.
"That Great Prophetess Iris bitch?"
"She's not letting up. My rep's at risk... might have to close shop. Need a few days empty for debate prep."
"Want me to kill her quiet-like?"
Joking, but she could. Deadly serious if she chose.
"No. Won't end clean. Gotta prove my power publicly. Prep means less time with you."
"Can't be helped. Hurry back. Can't sleep without you."
"I know. Back soon."
She snapped her fingers. A black shadow dove into me at blinding speed.
I flinched; she guided my hand to her head, purring.
"Planted a top-tier darkness spirit in you. It'll guard if needed. Detects stealth, disguises, shapeshifts—counters them auto."
"Perfect for assassination defense."
"Yeah. So hustle back. Got it?"
"Yes."
I stroked till she slept deep. Then to the living room, intercom to the count.
"Count. Status?"
He boomed a laugh. "Media's hooked. It's snowballing without me lifting a finger."
"Nobles?"
"Chaos! Shop closing? Phones ringing off the hook. Nobles glued to the debate hype. Stakes skyrocketed—huge."
"Iris side?"
"She started it—can't bail now. Weekend after next. Come to the Holy Kingdom?"
"I'll go."
"Win and come back." Click.
To the living room table, newspaper. Front page: the count's bombshell, ratings spike.
Iris was reading it too. No backing out now.
Our life-on-the-line debate loomed.