The dealer's arm extended, palm open and angled toward the Outsider with ceremonial precision, his pleated sleeve whispering as it unfolded.
"Wolf turn!"
Wolf did not answer. He remained seated exactly as he had been from the beginning—bolt upright, spine straight as a steel rod driven into the floor, shoulders squared and unmoving. His legs were spread wide beneath the table, boots planted firmly, claiming space without apology.
He looked less like a gambler and more like a fixed pillar anchoring the room.
For a brief second, his eyes dropped to the octagonal metal table.
The grooves.The angles.The way the blood clung, hesitated, resisted.
Then—
Thud!
Wolf stomped his heel against the metal floor.
The sound was not loud, but it was dense. The vibration rippled outward through the floorplates, traveled up the table leg like a climbing tremor, and reached the surface with a faint, metallic hum. The purple droplet in his hole quivered—barely, hesitantly—its surface tension trembling like a living thing.
Wolf stomped again.
Thud.
This time, the vibration lingered. It stacked with the first, overlapping in rhythm. The purple blood loosened, stretched, and finally spilled from its crater, slipping into the first guiding channel with a slow, deliberate crawl.
Wolf's right hand lifted. Two fingers hovered over the table's edge.
Tap.
A gentle, almost affectionate touch.
The blood stilled at the first resting point, obedient and calm.
Wolf exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly.
Phew… interesting enough.
The bar erupted.
"What the hell—?!"
"Hey! This outsider knows how to play our traditional game?!"
"No way—he didn't even rush it!"
"He's steady… too steady!"
The noise layered over itself—laughter, disbelief, excitement—fabric swishing as bodies leaned forward in their seats.
Even the young woman in the lotus-fold dress stiffened in her corner, her fingers tightening around her glass.
He really isn't a normal man… she thought, her brows knitting together, eyes locked on Wolf's unmoving posture.
The dealer wasted no time.
"Moritz turn!"
Moritz's gaze dropped to his own blood.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
Then—
Bang!
His palm slammed into the iron table near his hole. The impact rang like a struck bell, sharp and commanding. The surface tension broke instantly; the green blood dislodged and fell cleanly into its groove.
Moritz didn't pause.
His thumb came down hard, pressing into the metal, then flicked along the groove's edge with brutal precision.
The green blood splattered forward, scattering across the first connecting channel in aggressive arcs.
He finished his turn by stomping the table leg.
Crack—!
The vibration surged upward, violent and focused.
The green droplet shot forward at terrifying speed—far past Wolf's position—landing dangerously closer to the center hole.
A collective gasp tore through the bar.
"By the gods—!"
"He's already that close?!"
"That's Elder Moritz for you…!"
The dealer's voice cut through the noise.
"Wolf turn!"
At this point, the bar no longer sounded like a bar.
It sounded like an arena.
Every scrape of a chair, every swallowed breath, every rustle of pleated fabric existed for one reason only—the Red Needle table.
Wolf's pupils dilated slightly.
In calculation.
Without shifting his posture, he slid his fingertips beneath the edge of the metal table, nails lightly scraping against the underside.
A high-frequency vibration hummed through the structure.
The thickening purple blood trembled, inching forward with reluctant obedience.
Wolf leaned his elbow onto the table—just slightly—and shifted his weight to one side.
The change was microscopic.Invisible.
But the steel structure responded.
The table tilted.
Not enough to be seen.Enough to be felt.
Wolf's index finger rose.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A rhythm.
The vibration pattern collided with Moritz's earlier force, shaking the overly aggressive green blood out of balance.
It skidded, wobbled, then veered—sticking stubbornly to the curve's edge.
A wave of shocked murmurs rippled outward.
The dealer's voice lifted, unable to hide his excitement.
"Moritz turn!"
Moritz knew.
The instant Wolf had shifted his weight, Moritz felt it through the soles of his boots. His jaw tightened as he adjusted, sliding his chair to the opposite corner to counterbalance the tilt.
He rubbed his palm back and forth across the table.
Fast and hard.
Friction.
Heat bloomed beneath his skin, warming the metal. The clotting film on the green blood softened, melted, loosened.
He repeated the motion, ensuring the droplets flowed back into the main pathway.
His movements were efficient, practiced, mechanical.
Above them, the Red Needle knife slowed.
Its folding wings spread wide, fully visible now, casting a warped, rotating shadow across the table.
The crowd leaned in.
No one breathed.
"Wolf turn!"
Wolf spat onto the metal surface near his feet.
Then stomped.
Hard.
The liquid acted as a damping medium, altering the vibration's transmission. The shockwave traveled unevenly, distorted—unpredictable.
Wolf pressed his thumb onto the table and dragged it across the surface.
Screeech—
The sound grated against the ears, a deep metallic rumble that sent shockwaves through the grooves.
Moritz's green blood fractured.
Primary drops. Secondary splatter.
The crowd stirred violently.
Wolf didn't even look.
As the table shook, he tapped the edge once.
Tap.
His purple blood slid forward in silence.
Fear whispered through the bar.
Some patrons stared at Moritz's scattered blood as if witnessing the beginning of a collapse—like watching a golden kingdom crack from within.
A few quietly stood and left, unwilling to remain near a table where a legend might fall.
"Moritz turn!"
Moritz's eye twitched.
Just once.
He caught Wolf's smirk.
Then he bent forward, pressing his forehead against the cold metal surface, eyes closed—listening. Feeling the direction, the interference, the lingering echoes of Wolf's vibrations.
His fingers rose.
Four of them.
They tapped rapidly, piano-like, striking the table in shifting patterns. Interference waves spread, colliding with Wolf's momentum, slowing the purple blood's advance.
Then Moritz repeated the motion—this time on the table leg.
Both droplets began to clot.
The grooves darkened.
The air pressure in the room subtly changed, heavy and tight, as the Red Needle knife rotated even more slowly above them.
"Wolf turn!"
The dealer's voice cracked through the air like a snapped wire, sharp and final enough to make several patrons flinch.
Wolf did not look up. His posture remained exactly as before—bolt upright, spine straight as a driven rod, legs spread wide beneath the obstinate chair that still refused to accept him.
The stiffness of his stance made him look less like a man sitting at a table and more like a weapon braced against recoil.
His eyes slid down to the octagonal metal surface for a single, measured second.
Then—
Clunk.
The edge of Wolf's hand came down hard against the metal frame beneath the table, not the surface.
The sound was dull, heavy, and wrong—like a coffin lid being slammed shut. The impact traveled upward through the table's skeleton, bypassing the surface entirely.
The purple droplet jumped.
Not far—just enough.
It bounced cleanly out of the clogged groove, landed in a clearer channel, and settled with a subtle, almost graceful wobble. The friction that had been choking it vanished in an instant.
A sharp inhale rippled through the crowd.
Wolf leaned forward immediately, shoulders rolling inward for the first time since he had sat. His breath left his mouth in a controlled stream, warm and steady, fogging faintly against the cold metal as it flowed directly along his blood's pathway.
Don't freeze. Not yet.
His lips hovered dangerously close to the table. The smell of iron and mineral dust mixed with the heat of his breath. He exhaled once more—slower, longer—knowing full well it wouldn't be enough, knowing the blood would still thicken.
But slowing the inevitable was all he needed.
Behind his lowered bangs, his eyes sharpened.
Across the table, Moritz's mouth curled upward.
It was small. Almost polite.
The dealer swallowed.
"Moritz turn."
Moritz leaned forward as well, mirroring Wolf's action—but where Wolf was precise, Moritz was aggressive.
He bent low, breath pouring hot and fast over the green pathway, cheeks hollowing with each exhale. His coat creaked as its internal mechanisms adjusted to the sudden shift.
Now. Push.
His fist slammed down on the table's center.
Bang!
The shockwave rippled outward like a thunderclap trapped in metal. Green blood surged forward, racing down the groove—
—and stopped.
Dead.
It halted at the narrow neck of the channel, where pale mineral debris had compacted into a stubborn clog. The earlier vibrations Wolf had seeded now revealed their purpose, locking the path tight.
Moritz's pupils shrank.
"…That's not enough?!"
Disbelief cracked through his composure. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly.
Across from him, Wolf lifted his head at last.
He smiled.
It wasn't wide nor loud.
It was the kind of smile that waited.
He saw it. He saw through my trap.
Moritz's breath stuttered.
Blowing warm air alone wouldn't clear it…
He flicked his fingers rapidly along the table's edge—once, twice, again—sharp snapping sounds echoing uselessly.
The green blood didn't budge. It clung stubbornly to the groove, thick and unmoving.
Groans erupted around the bar.
"Ah—no—no, Moritz, that was careless!"
"He walked straight into it—like prey!"
"Wolf… he really is a wolf!"
Hands went to heads. Drinks sloshed, forgotten. The air grew dense, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
The Red Needle knife slowed.
Its whistling died into a low, ominous hum. The folding wings began to retract, inch by agonizing inch. A long, creeping shadow stretched outward from the blade, sliding over grooves and dried stains like the hand of a death clock measuring its final seconds.
Sweat beaded on brows.
Even Wolf's expression hardened. His shoulders squared. His breathing steadied.
The dealer's voice trembled this time.
"Wolf turn!"
Wolf moved.
A light tap—almost gentle—landed on the table's corner at a precisely calculated angle.
The micro-vibration coaxed his purple blood forward another fraction, nudging it dangerously close to the central pit.
Then—
Bang.
He slammed the heel of his hand against the edge of the table on his side. The impact didn't send his blood forward.
Instead, it reshaped the battlefield.
Mineral dust shifted, compacting into a low, deliberate dam directly in the path of Moritz's green droplet. A wall—not tall, not obvious—but fatal.
Wolf stepped back.
The chair screamed faintly as it resisted him, metal protesting against denim, but he didn't care.
He crossed his arms over his chest, shifted his weight onto one foot, pain flaring through his hips from the awkward stance.
He nodded once to the dealer.
Turn over.
"Moritz turn!"
The crowd couldn't sit still anymore.
Chairs scraped. Some stood. Some leaned forward so far their pleated garments unfurled instinctively, reacting to the tension like living things.
The knife was slowing—too slow.
Moritz knew it.
If he didn't move now, he wouldn't get another chance.
With a hoarse grunt, he slammed his fist down with everything he had.
The green blood leapt, vaulting over Wolf's mineral wall—
—and splattered.
The force collided with the table's subtle tilt, the imbalance Wolf had engineered earlier. The droplet broke apart, spreading messily instead of advancing cleanly.
Moritz sucked in a sharp breath, panic finally cracking through his discipline.
He bent low, exhaling one last desperate stream of warm air, trying to push the particles aside, trying to outrun the shadow sweeping closer and closer. His fingers flicked again and again, faster now, sloppier—
—but the blood had thickened too much.
The viscous mixture of blood and mineral powder clung stubbornly to the steel, refusing to move as the shadow crept nearer.
The whistling sound thinned into a trembling breath… then vanished.
The Red Needle knife stopped.
It halted as if the world itself had clenched a fist around time.
The high-density blade locked in place with a dry, final click, its folding wings collapsing inward—yet not fully. One wing lagged, caught at a shallow angle, metal teeth grinding faintly as if protesting the stillness.
That tiny imperfection sent a long, warped shadow crawling across the octagonal table, stretching, warping, sliding like the hand of a clock carved from death itself.
The tip of the knife pointed toward nothing.
Empty steel.
But the shadow did not care about the tip.
It flowed outward—over grooves, over dried streaks, over mineral dust—and then it stopped precisely where Moritz's green blood mist had scattered and clung to the powdered wall he himself had created.
A breath passed.
Then another.
No one inhaled.
No one exhaled.
The shadow rested—perfectly, mercilessly—on the suspended constellation of green droplets.
Near the center hole, untouched by darkness, Wolf's purple blood lay calm.
Still. Almost serene.
It had pooled just close enough to the threshold to feel intentional, deliberate—as if it had always known it would not need to go any farther.
For one suspended heartbeat, the bar did not exist.
Even the lamps seemed to dim, their amber light shrinking back as if unwilling to witness what had just been decided.
Then reality returned—slowly, cruelly.
Chairs scraped.
Glasses were lowered with shaking hands.
A few regulars—men who had laughed loudest, who had slammed coins and favors down on Moritz's name—rose silently from their seats. They did not curse. They did not protest. They simply left, eyes averted, steps hurried, as if remaining any longer might invite the same fate.
Those who stayed stared.
Not at Wolf.
At Moritz.
The look in their eyes was not betrayal.Not disappointment.Not even shock.
It was pity.
Moritz Luminoc—the King of Red Needle, the elder whose hands had bent tables and broken odds—sat frozen. His back was still perfectly straight, his pleated leather trousers still locked flawlessly into the chair's grooves, the machine beneath him still accommodating his posture as if nothing had gone wrong.
But his eyes were empty.
They stared at the green mist on the table like a man watching his own reflection drown.
His fingers twitched once.Then stopped.
Across the room, the young woman slowly raised a hand to her mouth. Her fingers trembled as they brushed her lips, eyes never leaving the table.
"This wasn't a gamble…" she murmured, her voice barely loud enough to exist. Her gaze softened—not with relief, but with grim understanding.
"Moritz is an old lion… and tonight…"
She swallowed.
"…he was swallowed whole by a lone wolf."
Wolf did not smile.
He did not gloat.
He remained seated—bolt upright, legs spread wide, his stiff, unmoving clothes still fighting the chair beneath him. His hands rested loosely at his sides, fingers relaxed, breathing slow and controlled. His eyes followed the shadow only briefly before lifting to the dealer.
The dealer swallowed.
Then moved.
With practiced care, he reached out and lifted the Red Needle knife. The metal was still warm. He wiped the blade slowly with a clean white cloth, once… twice… until not a trace of blood remained. The cloth came away stained anyway.
Only then did he turn.
Moritz had not moved.
He sat there, staring forward, his face pale beneath the lamplight, jaw slack—not open, not clenched, simply unheld. It was the look of a man whose calculations had finished running and returned a result he could not accept.
As if his soul had already stood up from the table...and left him behind.
The clockwork beneath the floor resumed its low, obedient ticking, as if the city itself had finally exhaled. Chairs adjusted back to neutral heights. The accordion band faltered, one long note stretching thin before collapsing into silence.
No one spoke. No one dared.
Wolf stood amid it all, chest rising and falling steadily, the heat of the game still clinging to his skin. The metallic scent of blood—green and purple—hung faintly in the air, mingling with oil, alcohol, and the sharp tang of overheated steel. His fingers flexed once, twice, as if shedding the memory of vibration and impact.
Actually… I could have lost.
The thought came calmly, without fear. Almost fond.
His gaze drifted—not outward, but inward—replaying every motion with surgical clarity.
From the very first turn, I wasted no time. Pressure. That's all this was.
I forced the pace so he'd assume my only path was the center hole.
His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile.
Because relying on the Red Needle's shadow is unreliable.
Old players don't like him doesn't want to gambling on uncertainty.
He cling to skill or what they called tradition.
Moritz had done exactly that.
Round two—he followed me. Round three—he sealed his ways.
Wolf remembered the exact moment Moritz's pupils had narrowed, the micro-delay before he adjusted his weight.
He figured it out fast. I'll give him that.
A quiet breath slid through Wolf's nose.
But instead of solving it cleanly… he chose heat.
It softened clotting film.
That choice sealed it.
His eyes sharpened, recalling the fracture—the way green blood had split under vibration, how Moritz's confidence had begun to leak out with it.
By the fourth round, he was defending and by the fifth… he can only reacting.
Wolf's fingers twitched again.
And then the real mistake.
Moritz bending down. Narrowing his view. Mirroring Wolf's breathing without realizing why.
He forgot the knife.
The shadow.
I didn't.
Wolf exhaled slowly.
In the end, it wasn't luck.
It was action. habit. nature of one individual.
A lion bound by old forest … and a wolf willing to burn it.
The dealer's clear voice cut cleanly through the aftermath.
it was formal and unquestionable.
"The winner of this Red Needle game is—Wolf."
The dealer extended his arm, palm open toward him, the pleats of his sleeve unfurling with a crisp metallic whisper.
For half a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then Wolf burst into laughter.
"Ahahahaha!"
He slapped the table once—hard.
Clang.
The knife rattled. The remaining mineral dust jumped.
"I won."
His grin was wide, feral, teeth bared without shame or restraint.
"Who's next?"
No one answered.
Wolf straightened abruptly, irritation flickering across his face as the chair beneath him screeched in protest, failing yet again to accommodate his unyielding clothes.
"Tch… this damn chair."
That was all.
He stepped away from it without ceremony and crossed the short distance to Moritz.
Moritz still sat there.
Rigid and pale.
His fingers twitched against the armrest, knuckles white. His eyes stared forward, unfocused, darting microscopically as if searching for an outcome that no longer existed.
The once-proud folds of his coat lay slack, mechanisms idle, like a machine after power loss.
Wolf leaned down.
Close enough that his breath brushed Moritz's ear.
His voice was calm. Ordinary even. It was almost businesslike.
"After I retrieve your money," Wolf murmured, "I'd like to buy some of your buildings."
A pause—just long enough to settle.
"You know… leaving you with nothing means you'll have to sell them anyway. I'll offer a generous price."
Moritz said nothing.
Seconds passed.
Then, slowly, he stood.
The chair unfolded away from him with a hollow click, as if releasing something already gone.
"It seems…" Moritz said at last, voice flat, eyes still not meeting Wolf's, "…the new era has come."
He turned back only once, pressing a folded piece of paper into Wolf's hand.
"My address."
And then he walked away.
The doors swallowed him whole.
Wolf slipped the paper into his pocket without looking, turned back to the bar, and raised his voice again—clear, fearless, ringing with challenge.
"Who's next! It doesn't have to be Red Needle! Any game—anything at all!"
His eyes burned.
"I won't back down."
A beat.
"I only back down when I die."
The crowd shifted uneasily.
Then—movement.
Wolf felt it before he saw it. The subtle displacement of air. The whisper of fabric unfolding.
He turned.
The young woman stood before him.
Her dress was folded so tightly it resembled layered flower petals—Lotus Fold—each pleat immaculate, controlled, alive. Her posture was straight, composed, yet something fierce coiled beneath it. Her gaze met his without flinching.
She was the one who had offered to pay for him.
Her voice was soft.
But it carried weight.
"Be my husband," she said, evenly, "and teach me your way."
Wolf frowned, staring at the woman in front of him.
"…Huh?"