The silence that followed the death of Krell was heavy, broken only by the thwup-thwup of the ceiling fan and the distant, rhythmic dripping of the tap behind the bar. The patrons had fled like cockroaches reacting to a sudden light, leaving half-finished drinks and overturned chairs in their wake.
Silas didn't look at the empty doorway. He grabbed Elara by the wrist.
His grip was not gentle. It was the grip of a man who had held the reins of reality and was currently struggling to hold onto his own temper. He dragged her past the bar, kicking open the door to the storage room.
The room smelled of sawdust, dried herbs, and the metallic tang of the mana residue fading from his skin.
He shoved her back. Elara hit the stacks of crates with a dull thud, but she didn't lose her footing. She didn't cower. She let out a breath that sounded disturbingly like a sigh of relief.
"You signaled them," Silas hissed, stepping into her personal space until he was looming over her. The shadows of the room clung to him, reacting to the residual energy of the Spades suit. "You knew Krell was a trigger-man. You knew I'd have to draw."
"I knew you were bored," Elara countered. Her voice was a velvet trap. She looked up at him through her lashes, her chest heaving against the tight fabric of her bodice. "I saw you wiping that counter, Silas. You looked... grey. Like a statue gathering dust."
She reached out, her fingers trailing up the front of his shirt, resting over the spot where the System interface usually appeared.
"But when you held that card," she whispered, her eyes dilating, "you were vibrant. You were the King of Ruins again."
"I am a bartender," Silas snarled. He pinned her wrists against the wooden crates, immobilizing her.
"Liar," she breathed.
The air between them crackled. It wasn't just anger; it was a dark, magnetic pull that defied logic. In their past life, they had been enemies who shared a bed, lovers who plotted each other's assassinations. That toxicity hadn't vanished with reincarnation; it had fermented.
Silas looked at her—the pulse fluttering in her throat, the invitation in her eyes. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to kiss her until she couldn't breathe.
"The System raised my Debt," Silas said, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "One percent. Do you know what happens if I hit one hundred?"
"We die," Elara said simply, leaning into his grip, offering herself to his anger. "Together. In a blaze of glory. Isn't that better than dying of old age, smelling of stale beer and regret?"
She tilted her head, exposing her neck. It was a gesture of submission that was entirely manipulative. "Punish me, then. Make me regret it."
Silas stared at the pale curve of her neck. The "monster" inside him—the Card Sovereign—wanted to bite down. To mark her. To own the chaos she created.
He released her wrists abruptly, stepping back as if burned.
"No," Silas said, straightening his shirt. He forced the cold logic of his mind to cool his blood. "That's what you want. I'm not playing your game, Elara."
Elara slumped slightly against the crates, a look of genuine disappointment crossing her face. "You're no fun when you're mortal."
[SYSTEM ALERT] [COMBAT RESOLUTION COMPLETE] [REWARD CALCULATED]
A golden text box floated in the dim light between them. Silas swiped his hand to open it.
Target Eliminated: Krell (Level 12 Brawler)
Method: 3 of Spades (Flawless Execution)
Loot: 120 Gold, Iron-Eye Signet Ring.
Experience: Level Up! (Level 4 -> Level 5)
Unlock: New Card Available.
[ADDING TO DECK: 4 OF DIAMONDS (THE PRISM)]
Class: Defense / Reflection.
Effect: Creates a faceted barrier of hard light. Capable of reflecting low-caliber projectiles and minor spellwork.
Ante Cost: 15 Mana.
Silas stared at the card spinning in the interface. Diamonds. The suit of preservation. The suit of greed.
"Clean up the back," Silas ordered, turning his back on her. "I need to fix the front."
Elara blinked, the disappointment vanishing into a smirk. "Yes, master."
Silas walked back into the main room. It was empty, save for the ghosts of the violence that had just occurred.
He grabbed a bucket of water and a stiff brush. He knelt on the floorboards where Krell had fallen. There was no blood—the Spade had cauterized the nerve instantly—but there was a stain of spilled ale and the scuff marks of boots.
Silas scrubbed. Scrub-scrub-scrub.
The repetitive motion was grounding. It was a mundane act, the kind of thing a god would never do. A god snaps his fingers and the mess vanishes. A man gets on his knees and works until his back aches. Silas cherished the ache. It felt real. It felt earned.
He stood up, wiping his hands on his apron. He checked the clock. Twenty minutes had passed.
Maybe it's over, he told himself, straightening a crooked chair. Maybe the universe will let me have the rest of the night.
He moved to the door to flip the sign to 'Closed.' His hand was inches from the latch.
The wood exploded.
There was no knock. No warning. A boot clad in steel-capped leather kicked the lock mechanism with enough force to splinter the oak. The double doors swung violently inward, banging against the interior walls with a deafening crack.
Silas stepped back, dust raining from the ceiling.
Sheriff Voss stepped in.
He was a nightmare of flesh and industry. A massive man, his left arm was entirely replaced by a brass-and-piston prosthetic that leaked steam in rhythmic hisses. His chest was covered by a thick vest of boiler-plate armor. He wore a tin star that looked like it had been sharpened into a shuriken.
Behind him stood two deputies, holding repeating rifles, their eyes scanning the shadows nervously.
"Where is he?" Voss bellowed. His voice was amplified by a harsh, metallic grating in his throat, a vox-box implant that made him sound like grinding gears. "Where is the gutter-rat who touched my property?"
Silas stood his ground, his face impassive, though his heart hammered a different rhythm.
"We're closed, Sheriff," Silas said. "Come back tomorrow. Happy Hour starts at five."
Voss stomped forward, his spurs jingling. "You think you're funny, boy? I heard you used a Parlor Trick on Krell. Some sort of hedge-magic."
Voss stopped at the bar, leaning over. The steam from his arm hissed directly into Silas's face, smelling of burnt coal and ozone. "You're an unregistered caster. In this town, that means you belong to me."
"I have a permit," Silas lied smoothly. "Somewhere."
"I don't care about paper," Voss sneered. He raised his mechanical arm. The pistons engaged with a high-pitched whine, pressure building in the hydraulic lines. It was a punch designed to crush rocks. "I'm going to squash your head like a grape, take your woman, and burn this shack down."
Voss threw the punch.
It was fast. Too fast for a normal human. The brass fist aimed directly for Silas's temple.
[THE HOUSE IS OPEN] [DRAW: 4 OF DIAMONDS]
The card flashed in Silas's mind.
Cost: 15 Mana.
Silas gritted his teeth as the Ante was extracted. Fifteen. It cost him five mana to kill a man with a Spade, but fifteen to simply block a punch with a Diamond.
The System wants me to kill, Silas realized with a flash of bitterness. It taxes mercy. It subsidizes murder.
He paid the tax anyway.
Silas raised his left hand, palm open.
CLANG.
The sound was like a church bell being struck by a sledgehammer.
Voss's fist stopped inches from Silas's face. It hadn't hit flesh. It had hit a floating, translucent geometric wall. The barrier shone with a brilliant, prismatic light, refracting the Sheriff's ugly face into a dozen confused reflections.
[EFFECT: KINETIC REFLECTION]
"What the—" Voss grunted, trying to retract his arm.
He couldn't. The Prism didn't just block; it redirected. The kinetic energy of the Sheriff's hydraulic punch flooded into the Diamond structure, swirled for a microsecond, and then slammed back into the source.
"Return to sender," Silas murmured.
CRACK-BOOM.
The impact was visceral. Voss wasn't just pushed back; he was launched.
He flew through the air, crashing into a heavy oak poker table. The wood didn't just break; it shattered under the force of the impact. Voss tumbled, rolling across the floorboards until he hit the far wall.
"Argh!" Voss howled, clutching his arm.
Smoke billowed from the brass limb. The reflection had overloaded the hydraulics. A seal had blown, and scalding white steam was venting aggressively, hissing like a wounded snake. Thick, black oil sprayed from the elbow joint, pooling on the floor. The brass plating was dented inward, as if an invisible giant had squeezed it.
The smell of burnt lubricant and seared flesh filled the room.
Silas dismissed the barrier. It shattered into motes of light that looked like diamond dust, raining down on the bar.
"My establishment has a strict 'No Brawling' policy," Silas said, his voice cold and even. He picked up the glass he had been polishing and set it down with a sharp clack.
"Take your men and leave, Sheriff. Before I draw a face card."
Voss looked up, eyes wide with fear and confusion. He looked at his ruined arm, the pistons twitching uselessly, then at the man who looked like a scholar but hit like a mountain.
"You..." Voss coughed, stumbling to his feet, oil dripping from his fingers. "You're not a Warlock. Warlocks bleed."
"I'm a Gambler," Silas corrected. "And the odds just shifted."
Voss retreated, signaling his deputies with his good hand. They backed out of the saloon, weapons raised but unwilling to fire at a man who could break steam-tech with a wave of his hand.
As the doors swung shut, Silas felt the drain. 15 Mana was a significant chunk of his reserves. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the metaphysical fatigue.
[KARMA DEBT STATUS: STABLE (1%)]
He looked toward the shadows near the kitchen. Elara stepped out. She wasn't smiling anymore. She was looking at the pool of black oil on the floor, and then at Silas, with a hunger that was far more dangerous than the Sheriff's fist.
"Diamonds," she whispered, licking her lips. "Expensive. Hard. Unbreakable."
"Go to bed, Elara," Silas said, turning away to hide the exhaustion on his face. "The game is over for tonight."
"Oh no, Silas," she replied, her voice trailing him down the hall. "The game has just begun."