The tavern was heavy with silence.
All eyes had turned toward the table where Ciel stood, facing the scarred man. The dagger, embedded in the wood, gleamed faintly under the flickering lamps.
The man smiled, confident.
"So, kid? Show us if you're made of flesh… or dust."
Whispers spread across the room. They expected a spectacle: to watch the boy from Sanwi humiliate himself—or bleed.
Ciel inhaled. His mind swirled, but his face remained a mask.
He gently placed his fingers on the knife's handle.
"A knife cuts flesh, true," he said in a calm voice. "But it also cuts ties. Promises. Illusions."
The man frowned.
"You talk too much."
"I talk just enough."
Ciel pulled the knife slowly from the wood. Instead of raising it, he twirled it between his fingers, as a merchant would with a quill. Then he set it back on the table, blade turned toward the man.
"If I stab you with this knife, what do I win?" Ciel asked.
"My respect?"
"No. Your silence. And silence can't be traded. It doesn't feed you."
The men around them chuckled. But Ciel pressed on, relentless:
"If, instead, I turn this knife against you—not with blood, but with your own words—then I gain more than respect. I gain your debt."
A tense hush fell over the tavern. The scarred man's gaze hardened.
"And how does a boy think he can buy me?"
Ciel pulled out the small purse the old man in Sanwi had once given him. He counted out ten bills and placed them on the table.
"A wager. Ten bills against your knife. If I win, you owe me your blade and your silence. If I lose, you take everything I have left, and I crawl out of Darklang as a beggar."
Laughter erupted in the room. Yet the scarred man's eyes gleamed. Even meager money was still temptation.
"What's your game, boy?"
"Simple," Ciel replied. "You pick a hand. Guess right, you take my ten bills. Guess wrong, you owe me your knife."
He clasped the knife in one hand, closed both fists, and held them out.
The scarred man hesitated. His eyes fixed on Ciel's thin hands. A child, he thought, too weak to deceive a wolf.
He chose the left hand.
Ciel opened it slowly. Empty.
A ripple of shock spread through the room. The man paled.
"Impossible…"
Ciel opened his other hand. The knife rested there, gleaming.
A thin smile curved his lips.
"You just lost your weapon. And your debt begins."
The tavern erupted in laughter—but this time, not at Ciel's expense. The gazes shifted. In their eyes, he was no longer just a boy. He had tamed a predator with nothing but a gamble.
The scarred man, humiliated, clenched his teeth. He wanted to lash out, but his own men stopped him. The rule was clear: a wager was a contract. And a contract could not be broken.
Ciel slid the knife into his belt, mentally engraving a new lesson.
Men fear ridicule more than pain. To offer choice is already to control the outcome.
That night, back in the small room he had rented, he opened his notebook and wrote:
A public contract is stronger than a blade. For a blade kills a man, but a contract kills his name.
The fear of ridicule is an invisible rope that strangles more surely than hatred.
Always give the choice. Even if every path leads to your victory.
He lay down, the knife at his side.
His first duel in Darklang had spilled no blood. Yet it carved an invisible scar into the minds of many.
And already, in the city's dark corridors, his name was beginning to spread like a new shadow.