A collective gasp rippled through our crew in a synchronized wave of disbelief, the sound echoing in the vault's enclosed space and bouncing back at us with added emphasis.
I had to shield my eyes—the glare was that intense, gold reflecting gold reflecting magical light in an infinite loop of brilliance—blinking a few times in rapid succession before my pupils adjusted enough to take in the scene without feeling like I was staring directly into a miniature sun.
My eyes widened with genuine surprise—which was rare for me at this point given everything I'd experienced tonight—because the space before us was enormous.
Not merely large, but architecturally excessive—easily the size of a small house, maybe larger, its every surface clad in gold so pure and polished it felt less like a room and more like a shrine to avarice given physical form.
There were piles. Actual piles. Towers of crowns stacked with meticulous abandon, rising toward the ceiling in uneven peaks like some kind of monetary mountain range, each stack containing thousands upon thousands of individual coins.
Other artifacts dotted the space as well. Ornate jewelry boxes sat open and overflowing, their velvet-lined interiors vomiting necklaces and rings in tangled, glittering excess—each gem catching the light and shattering it into riotous rainbows that skittered across the gold-plated walls.
Ceremonial crowns rested on shelves and pedestals as though waiting patiently for monarchs who would never return. Between them lay gem-encrusted daggers, their blades pristine and ostentatious, weapons so lavishly decorated they seemed to exist less as instruments of violence and more as aggressively expensive suggestions of it.
And then there was the statue—solid gold, unmistakably expensive, and vaguely obscene in a way that suggested whoever commissioned it had both money to burn and a deeply questionable sense of humor.
"Holy shit," Grisha breathed, her tusked jaw hanging open in an expression I'd never seen on her face before. Gone was her usual predatory satisfaction, that sharp, calculating gleam she wore when evaluating threats or opportunities.
In its place was something dangerously close to awe, her eyes reflecting the vault's brilliance as though her brain had momentarily short-circuited under the weight of its majesty.
Felix, meanwhile, made a sound best described as a strangled kitten confronting the concept of inheritance and promptly swooned, his delicate frame swaying slightly before Julius caught him by the elbow.
Nara was bouncing on her heels, her bunny ears flopping wildly. "We're rich! Oh gods, we're actually—can I touch it? Please say I can touch it!"
Brutus stood frozen, his eyes so wide I briefly worried they might actually pop out of his skull and roll across the floor to join the treasure. "This... this can't be real. How much is this?"
"Enough to buy half the fucking city," Grisha answered flatly.
Before anyone could respond—before I could even process what was happening—Julius flung himself at the nearest pile of coins with all the grace of a drunken swan attempting flight.
He hit the gold with a loud crash, his body disappearing into the metallic avalanche before he resurfaced hugging handfuls of it, actually hugging the money, rubbing his face against the coins and leaving kiss marks on random crowns like they were lovers he'd been separated from during wartime.
"My precious!" he sobbed, pressing them to his cheeks. "My beautiful, gorgeous, perfect darlings! I'll never let you go! We'll be together forever!"
"Julius," I started, "that's—you're being—"
He scooped up another handful and threw them in the air above his head, laughing like a complete maniac as they rained back down on him in a glittering shower.
I sighed before stepping into the vault properly, my boots crunching slightly on stray coins that had escaped their organized piles, and reached out to brush my hands over the wealth with something approaching reverence.
The metal was cool beneath my fingertips—smooth, solid, and real in a way that made my brain struggle to accept this wasn't some elaborate hallucination.
"This was Oberen's personal vault," the overseer said suddenly, "All contents are now legally yours per the transfer agreement. The deed has been filed, the wards transferred—this wealth belongs to you and your designated associates."
He paused, and I swear I heard the faintest hint of what might've been approval in his tone, though that could've been wishful thinking.
"In addition," he continued smoothly, "the one million crowns you earned from the initial match, alongside the two hundred thousand you've reclaimed from Oberen, will be drawn from the casino's public vault."
I nodded, barely processing his words because I was too busy watching my crew descend into various states of gold-induced euphoria—Felix tentatively picking up individual crowns like they might bite him, Grisha testing the weight of a jeweled dagger, Nara attempting to build a fort, and Julius still rolling around in the piles, giggling like an absolute madman.
I let out a fond sigh because these absolute disasters were mine, and despite everything, I wouldn't trade them for the world.
"We'll carry a fraction of the winnings back with us for now," I explained to the Overseer. "Keep the rest in reserve here—it's probably safer in this vault than anywhere else, and I don't trust myself not to spend it all on something stupid if it's too accessible."
The Overseer bowed slightly. "A wise decision. I'll assign attendants to assist with the transfer of your selected portion. How much would you like to start with?"
I did quick mental math, factoring in immediate needs, potential emergencies, and the simple desire to have ridiculous amounts of money available for spontaneous chaos. "Five hundred thousand crowns. Mix of coins and easily liquidated jewelry."
"As you wish," he replied before turning and murmuring something to his companions who immediately departed with that same unsettling silence.
What followed was organized chaos—the kind that happens when you give a hundred or so casino attendants the job of boxing up half a million crowns worth of wealth.
They worked with impressive efficiency, producing crates from gods-knew-where and filling them with carefully counted amounts while I supervised and tried to keep Julius from stealing extra handfuls when he thought I wasn't looking.
An hour vanished into a blur of clinking metal, murmured numbers, and the steady, comforting rhythm of wealth being rendered portable.
When the final crate was sealed shut with a satisfying thunk and hauled away, I gathered my crew—physically extracting Julius from a pile he'd begun nesting in, complete with defensive whining—and we threaded our way back through the labyrinthine of corridors.
It wasn't long before the lobby stretched before us, and waiting near the entrance were the two Velvets with Oberen held between them.
He was standing—barely—his nauseating green suit handing open down the middle, torn and bloodstained, revealing bandages wrapped around his chest that were already seeping through with fresh crimson.
His face was pale, hollowed out by pain and blood loss, but his eyes were conscious—aware enough to understand exactly what was happening and just how powerless he was to stop it.
I smirked, something dark and satisfied curling in my chest. "Take the lead," I told the Velvets, gesturing toward the exit. They glanced at each other—just a quick exchanged look that suggested some form of silent communication—before complying without question, adjusting their grip on Oberen and starting toward the doors.
I turned back to face Jazmin, who'd been hovering near the edge of our group with that nervous energy of someone who'd just been handed a measure of responsibility they weren't quite sure they could handle.
"Take care of the casino while I'm gone," I told her, my tone softening slightly. "Make sure it doesn't burn down, doesn't get robbed, doesn't accidentally become sentient and try to eat the customers. You know, standard stuff."
Jazmin looked slightly flustered, her bronze skin darkening with what might've been a blush, before she bowed with more formality than the situation strictly required.
"I won't let you down. I promise."
I nodded once, satisfied, then motioned for the rest of my crew and the hundred-plus attendants carrying boxes to follow. The group surged into motion, and together we spilled through the casino's front doors and out into the mid-section streets.
And thus began what could only be described as a parade.
We walked down the smoky streets in a formation that almost certainly violated several traffic laws, Oberen stumbling in the Velvets' grip at the very front like some kind of defeated general being marched through enemy territory, followed by me and my immediate crew, followed by the small army of attendants bearing crates that chimed softly with every step—the unmistakable, indecent music of wealth in transit.
The streetlamps bathed everything in warm amber light, casting long, theatrical shadows that stretched and warped with every step, lending the whole affair an almost cinematic quality.
The mid-section at that hour was comfortably alive. People lingered on corners with cigarettes glowing between their fingers, noble couples strolled arm in arm, laughing softly, lesser workers trudged home with the bone-deep fatigue of overnight shifts etched into their posture.
At first, they only glanced our way with mild curiosity—the lazy, half-interested looks people gave anything slightly unusual in a city where slightly unusual was practically the norm.
Then someone recognized Oberen. I saw it happen in real-time—a man peering through the fogged window of what appeared to be a tea house, his eyes widening, hand shooting up to point.
"Is that—that's Oberen!" he shouted. "The casino lord! What happened to him?!"
The whispers started immediately, spreading through the street like wildfire. People paused on walkways, leaned over balconies, pressed their faces to windows and peeked out from doorways to get a better look.
"He's bleeding—" "Who are those people with him—" "Is he being arrested—" "Look at all those boxes—" "It's him, the one from the arena match!" The murmurs built into proper conversation, speculation flying as more and more people began recognizing the man who'd controlled one of the mid-section's most profitable establishments now being paraded through the streets in defeated shambles.
And then someone started laughing. Just one person at first, a woman on a second-floor balcony who'd apparently put the pieces together faster than her neighbors.
"He lost!" she cackled, the sound sharp and triumphant as it carried down into the street. "Oberen lost! Someone actually beat him!"
The realization spread like a wave, disbelief transforming into delighted schadenfreude, and suddenly the streets erupted into cheering and laughing—actual cheering, people clapping, whistling, shouting encouragement at us while simultaneously mocking Oberen's downfall with the kind of vicious glee that suggested he hadn't exactly been beloved by the community.
Oberen's face, already pale and hollowed, somehow managed to look even more defeated as the weight of their celebration crashed upon him. His eyes stared straight ahead with thousand-yard emptiness, his mouth slightly open, every cheer and laugh another nail in the coffin of his reputation.
Brutus leaned close, his deep voice rumbling just loud enough for me to hear over the noise. "This is brutal. Effective, but brutal. You're destroying him more thoroughly than any physical punishment could."
I grinned up at my massive companion, my voice bright with satisfaction. "Well, you know what they say—a man can survive losing his wealth, losing his power, even losing his life. But losing his dignity in front of everyone who ever feared him? That's the kind of wound that never heals."
"You know they're going to write songs about this, right? Terribly offensive songs that'll get sung in taverns for the next decade or so."
"Good. Let them," I replied. "Every verse is free advertising for the theater, and besides—" I gestured at the cheering crowd, at Oberen's defeated form, at our ridiculous parade of wealth and chaos, "—we've earned a terrible tavern song or twelve."
As the parade pressed on—our procession swelling as a handful of curious onlookers fell in at the rear, drawn along by spectacle and rumor while cheers ricocheted off the buildings and the weight of change settled over the mid-section like a promise—I couldn't help but think that sometimes the best victories weren't the ones written in blood or measured in crowns, but the ones that reminded everyone watching that even the mighty could fall—and that when they did, someone small, scrappy, and catastrophically unhinged would be there to dance on the ruins.
Somewhere ahead, past the smoke and celebration, the theater waited—our home, our base, and our launching point for whatever beautifully chaotic schemes came next.