I watched every move, every twitch of Lloyd's body as he raised his fist—the subtle shift of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled with practiced ease, the micro-expressions that flickered across his face.
I raised my own fist in response, mirroring his position.
Then my brain kicked into overdrive.
Most people would go for rock first. Of course they would. It was the first word in the name of the game, carried weight in its syllables, felt aggressive and strong—the shape of a fist, primitive and direct, the choice of someone who wanted to project dominance right out of the gate.
Statistics backed this up too—studies of roshambo tournaments showed that inexperienced players opened with rock nearly forty percent of the time, drawn to its illusion of power like moths to a very predictable flame.
But I couldn't play that simple, not with a man like this.
Lloyd would be expecting the obvious choice, would have built his entire strategy around exploiting common patterns. If I threw rock, he'd counter with paper—smooth, inevitable—and flash that warm, insufferable smile while my coin purse migrated to that pile of his. So scissors then? Except that was the counter-counter strategy, the "I know that you know" level of thinking, which meant he'd probably anticipate it and throw rock himself.
Unless he expected me to expect that, in which case paper would be his choice, making scissors my winning move after all.
My thoughts spiraled deeper into recursive loops of prediction and counter-prediction. Game theory suggested that in a truly random game, each option should appear with equal probability—thirty-three percent for rock, paper, and scissors respectively. But humans weren't random. We had patterns, biases, psychological tells that could be read and exploited by someone paying attention.
There was also the matter of priming—Lloyd had just watched me observe fifteen other matches, and the distribution of throws in those games might subconsciously influence my own choice. If I'd seen more rocks than scissors, my brain might compensate by avoiding rock myself, which Lloyd could potentially predict if he'd been tracking my eye movements and micro-reactions throughout the viewing.
Then there was the physical consideration—scissors required the most complex hand shape, two fingers extended while the others curled, which meant it had the highest potential for error in execution. Rock was simple, paper was straightforward, but scissors demanded precision. In a high-pressure situation, most people's bodies defaulted to simpler forms.
I could apply a mixed strategy Nash equilibrium, randomizing my choices to make myself unpredictable, but that required multiple rounds to be effective and we were only playing best two out of three. First move advantage was real—whoever won the opening round had psychological momentum, could afford to play more conservatively in round two while their opponent grew desperate.
There were tells to watch for, too. Did Lloyd's breathing change before certain throws? Did his pupils dilate? Did his grip tighten or loosen microscopically? I'd been watching for these exact indicators during his previous matches, but he'd shown nothing—either perfect control or natural talent at maintaining a poker face that extended to his entire body.
I could try to get inside his head psychologically. What would appeal to someone like Lloyd? He was theatrical, enjoyed the performance aspect, loved making people laugh.
Would he throw something unexpected just for the entertainment value? Or would his competitive nature override showmanship, making him choose the statistically optimal response regardless of narrative satisfaction?
Eventually I huffed a quiet sigh and settled on the uncomfortable truth—in the end, I might as well give up on trying to ascertain what Lloyd would throw.
The deeper you thought into these sorts of things, the more overly complicated the game became, each layer of analysis adding another dimension of uncertainty until you'd paralyzed yourself with possibilities. I'd read about chess grandmasters experiencing this exact phenomenon—thinking so many moves ahead that they'd loop back around to confusion, second-guessing choices that should have been instinctive.
For now, I needed to focus solely on figuring out Lloyd's method of cheating.
The how mattered more than the what. Understanding his trick would let me counter it, give me the edge I needed to actually win this. So I settled my focus entirely on him, watching with every enhanced sense I possessed, and decided somewhat arbitrarily that I would throw scissors.
No complex reasoning. Just a choice. Scissors it was.
Lloyd's grin widened as he sensed my readiness, and he began the count.
"Rock!"
His fist pumped once, and mine followed in perfect synchronization. The crowd leaned in, their collective breath held, the tension so thick you could probably cut it with—well, with scissors, which was exactly what I was about to throw.
"Paper!"
Second pump. My muscles coiled, preparing for the reveal. I could feel my fingers beginning to unfurl inside my fist, ready to spring into the scissors formation the moment the command came.
"Scissors!"
Third pump. This was it. The moment of truth. My brain sent the signal down my arm—extend index and middle finger, keep the rest curled—
"SHOOT!"
Our hands flew open in the universal gesture of commitment. Then my eyes blew wide as I saw what Lloyd had thrown. Paper. His hand was completely flat, palm facing me, fingers together in a textbook paper formation.
Holy shit. I'd won.
I'd actually—
My triumphant thoughts cut off abruptly as the crowd began to murmur, their voices rising in a mixture of amusement and mock sympathy. A few were snickering outright, their laughter building as they pointed at our hands and made comments that suggested something had gone very, very wrong.
"Oh, that's unfortunate!"
"So close!"
"The poor thing actually thought—"
The mockery rolled over me in waves, bright and merciless, as Lloyd threw his head back and laughed—that same rich, booming sound that had accompanied every previous victory.
"Well then!" he announced to the crowd, his voice carrying easily over their noise, "it seems our challenger has fallen victim to the same fate as so many before him! Rock meets paper, paper claims another victim, and the undefeated streak continues!"
"But I threw—" I started to protest, my voice rising with genuine confusion.
Lloyd cut me off by glancing at my hand with a raised eyebrow, his expression shifting into something that was equal parts amused and pitying—like a patient tutor watching a bright but stubborn child insist, with absolute conviction, that two plus two equaled five.
I quickly glanced down at my own hand. Then my heart stuttered. My hand was in the shape of a fist. A complete, closed fist. Knuckles white with tension, fingers curled tight, thumb tucked against the side.
Rock.
I'd thrown rock.
My mind went completely blank for a second, thoughts scattering like startled birds, because that was impossible. I'd decided on scissors. Had committed to scissors. Had felt my fingers beginning to extend into the scissors formation during the final pump. I was going to throw scissors, had been certain I was throwing scissors, and yet—
And yet my hand had formed rock. As if my body had moved against my mind's explicit instructions, overriding conscious choice with some involuntary reflex I hadn't known I possessed.
"How—" I breathed, staring at my hand like it had personally betrayed me. "How did you—?"
"How did I what?" Lloyd asked, spreading his hands in a gesture of helpless bewilderment. "I simply played paper, you played rock, and the ancient laws of roshambo dictated the outcome. Are you suggesting there's some mystery here? Some conspiracy?"
He turned to address the crowd, working them up with practiced ease. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think our challenger is experiencing what we in the business call 'denial'! A common response to unexpected defeat! Very natural, very understandable, nothing to be ashamed of!"
The crowd laughed alongside him, the sound rolling warm and merciless through the room. Some nobles offered me sympathetic nods—those polite, pitying tilts of the head that said "better luck next time, dear"—while others wore open amusement, lips curled in smug delight at the sight of my obvious confusion.
It was then that I forced myself to take a breath, to push past the shock and think.
There had to be an explanation. A logical, traceable explanation for why my hand had disobeyed direct orders from my brain. And if Lloyd was cheating—which I knew with absolute certainty he was—then this had to be part of his method.
"Can I shake your hand?" I asked suddenly, the words coming out calmer than I felt. "Good sportsmanship and all that. Congratulations on the win."
Lloyd's eyebrow raised slightly at the request, but he was clearly too confident in whatever method he was using to see any threat in a simple handshake. "Of course!" he said magnanimously, extending his hand across the table. "I appreciate a gracious loser. They're so rare in these circles."
I gripped his hand firmly, maintaining eye contact while concentrating hard on the newly acquired mana detection ability I'd stolen from Willow. I let my awareness expand, feeling for any traces of magical energy in his body—incarnic enhancement in his muscles, excarnic manipulation around his aura, anything that would explain his impossible winning streak.
But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. His body was as magically inert as a normal human's, no enhancement whatsoever, not even the ambient traces that most magic users carried like residue.
Damn it.
We broke our clasp as Lloyd leaned back in his seated position, that infuriating grin still locked in place like he'd nailed it to his face with pure, unshakeable confidence.
I thought quickly, working through the logic. If the magic hadn't come from his body, then it had to be coming from somewhere else. Either someone in the crowd was casting spells remotely—which seemed unlikely given the precision required—or the source was environmental. Fixed in place. Waiting to be triggered.
My eyes tracked around the space casually, not wanting to draw attention to what I was doing, before settling on a thought that made perfect sense.
The floor.
We were sitting on it. Stationary positions that didn't change between matches. If someone wanted to place a persistent spell that would affect multiple opponents without requiring constant recasting, they'd anchor it to the physical space where the game took place.
I reached down slowly—slow enough not to draw attention—and placed my hand flat against the polished wood floor, letting my mana detection spread through my fingertips and into the boards beneath.
And there it was. Faint. So faint I almost missed it even while actively searching, but unmistakable once I focused—traces of magical energy woven into the wood itself, creating patterns that extended beneath where I was sitting.
I closed my eyes, concentrating harder to get a clearer reading of the spell's structure. The traces formed shapes, symbols, interconnecting lines that suggested deliberate construction rather than random magical residue.
It was a magic circle.
I carefully assessed its symbols, running through everything Willow and I had studied in those tomes during our rapid-fire magical education session. Most of the markings were unfamiliar—complex runes that probably required years of study to fully understand—but one stood out with immediate recognition.
The symbol for lightning. Or electricity, depending on how you translated it. The same one that had been present in the tome when Willow taught me the shock spell.
Then it clicked into place.
The realization clicked into place so cleanly, so perfectly, that a laugh nearly escaped me right then and there. Gods, I had to clamp down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep it from spilling out and announcing my discovery to the entire room.
The spell, I guessed, was designed to send a controlled shock through the body of whoever sat in the designated position—my position—directly affecting muscle contraction and expansion. Not enough voltage to hurt or be obviously painful, but just enough to force specific muscles to move in predetermined ways. Ways that Lloyd had programmed into the circle beforehand, probably adjusting between each match based on what throw he wanted his opponent to make.
It was fucking genius.
Diabolically clever, nearly impossible to detect without abilities of Willow's standard, and completely foolproof as long as your opponents didn't realize they were being manipulated. The victim would feel like they were making their own choice right up until the moment their hand betrayed them, and they'd never know why.
No wonder Lloyd had such a perfect record. He wasn't reading minds, seeing the future, or moving faster than perception—he was simply cheating with style.
"Are you quite done with your meditation?" Lloyd asked, his tone laced with mock impatience though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "I'd hate to rush you, but there are other challengers waiting, and we do have a second round to play if you're still interested in pursuing this lost cause."
My face curled into a massive smirk that probably revealed more confidence than I should have been showing. "Oh, I'm ready," I said, my voice carrying an edge of knowing satisfaction. "More than ready. Let's go for round two, shall we?"
Lloyd's expression flickered with something that might have been surprise at my renewed enthusiasm, but then recovered quickly, turning to address the crowd with his arms spread wide in that familiar theatrical gesture.
"Well would you look at that!" he called out, his voice booming with renewed energy, practically vibrating with the kind of manic showmanship that made people love him. "Our brave challenger hasn't given up! Despite facing defeat, despite the odds stacked against him, he wishes to try again! Let's hear it for his courage—or possibly his stupidity! The two are so often difficult to distinguish!"
The crowd roared with approval and laughter, thoroughly entertained by this unexpected spectacle.
Lloyd raised his fist once more toward me, his grin turning sharp and predatory. "Alright then," he said, his eyes locking onto mine with renewed focus. "Let's have at it. Best of luck—you're going to need it."
I raised my own fist in response, but this time I wasn't just playing roshambo. I was playing a completely different game now—one Lloyd didn't even know had started.