The Emerald Isle didn't so much occupy a plot of Las Vegas real estate as it aggressively violated it. It was a towering ziggurat of glowing, electric kelly green, pulsating like a radioactive shamrock. Neon harps shot beams of light into the smoggy sky, and the doormen were not your typical broad-shouldered bouncers. They were Clurichauns—bigger, redder-nosed, and perpetually swaying cousins to the Leprechaun, smelling powerfully of stout and belligerence. Their eyes were glazed, but their hands rested on cudgels of blackthorn wood that hummed with a low, dangerous magic.
Alistair adjusted the cuffs of his steel-gray suit—tailored, expensive, but cut to allow for a sudden sprint or a tactical roll. He looked every inch the affluent, curious tourist, albeit one with a sword-shaped lump under his tailored jacket. He pushed through the gilded, harp-shaped doors.
The sensory overload was instant and meticulously magical. The cacophony of slot machines was a chorus of chiming gold coins and synthesized Celtic reels. The air was a thick cocktail of ozone from magical currents, expensive tobacco, and the faint, sweet-rot scent of fairy gold. He noted the security with a scholar's eye: the cameras had lenses shaped like four-leaf clovers—See-All Enchantments, no blind spots. Discreet pots of gold, no bigger than umbrella stands, were placed at strategic junctures, glowing faintly; they weren't just décor, but magical capacitors, storing stolen luck and potential energy to power the house's spells.
He'd taken three steps onto the kaleidoscopic carpet when they materialized beside him. Two Leprechauns, impeccably dressed in pinstripe suits the color of moss and money. Their bow ties were tight, their beards were waxed into sharp points, and the violin cases they carried were too short and too thick for violins.
"The boss wants a word, lad," said the one on the left, his voice a cheerful Dublin lilt that didn't match his cold, emerald eyes. "You've got a look about ya. Not the usual mark."
"A look?" Alistair asked, his smile easy. "Probably the 'desperately in need of a lucky break' look. I hear the slots here are looser than a banshee's wail."
"Aye, something like that," said the second, not smiling at all. "This way. And mind your manners. The boss values a quiet conversation."
They flanked him, a perfectly coordinated escort, leading him past the shrieking roulette wheels and the intense, silent craps tables where a troll was delicately shaking dice the size of grapefruits. A hidden door, disguised as a giant, carved whiskey cask, swung open, and they descended a spiral staircase that smelled of old stone, damp earth, and data servers.
The office of Seamus O'Shaunessy was a beautiful paradox. One wall was a genuine, centuries-old Irish pub interior—dark wood, a crackling peat fire in a small hearth, shelves holding bottles of liquids that shimmered with internal light. The opposite wall was a futuristic security hub: a bank of monitors showing every angle of the casino, scrolling lines of code, and financial tickers from markets both mortal and mystical. In the center, behind a desk of polished bog oak, sat the boss himself.
Seamus was ancient, his face a roadmap of cunning and survival. One eye was a sharp, calculating green. The other was a whirring, focusing piece of cybernetic brass and crystal—a Gnomish Ocular, the ultimate tool for assessing value and threat. He leaned on a cane with a tip of solid, impossibly bright gold. And on the desk before him, under a glass dome that pulsed with containment runes, lay Excalibur's scabbard. Even muted, its presence was a quiet hum of ancient, protective power, a stark contrast to the garish magic of the casino.
"Dr. Alistair Finch," Seamus said, his voice like gravel rolling over velvet. He didn't gesture to a chair. "Your reputation flutters through the networks. The man who returns things. A noble, if peculiar, profession. You're here for the bauble." He tapped the glass with his cane. A soft ping echoed.
"I'm here to make a trade," Alistair said, calmly taking the offered seat without invitation. "A fair one."
"Mortal currency is for mortals," Seamus dismissed, his cybernetic eye whirring softly as it scanned Alistair. "We deal in potential. In the seeds of future wealth. What potential do you carry, Dr. Finch? What golden seed can you plant in my garden?"
Alistair leaned back, steepling his fingers. He didn't even glance at the scabbard. "What's the house edge on your Blackjack tables, Seamus? The true mathematical one, after all your… luck siphoning?"
The room went very still. The two guards by the door shifted their grips on their violin cases. Seamus's organic eye narrowed. "A curious question. The house edge is what we say it is."
"But what if it wasn't?" Alistair's voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. "What if you could know? Not with magic, not with stolen luck, but with cold, human certainty. A system. A… mathematical prophecy."
Seamus stared. "Prophecy is for oracles and madmen."
"This is the prophecy of the balanced deck," Alistair said, his eyes alight with the passion of a professor explaining a beautiful theory. "It's called card counting. There was a mortal, see, touched by the gods with a mind that could see numbers as living things. In his story, he called it 'counting cards.' I can give you that story. The Hi-Lo System. You assign values. High cards are minus. Low cards are plus. You keep a 'running count.' When the count is high, the prophecy says the remaining deck is rich in aces and face cards. The player's advantage shifts. It's not gambling anymore, Seamus. It's harvesting."
He could see the intrigue warring with deep-seated suspicion in the Leprechaun's face. The cybernetic eye whirred, likely cross-referencing the concept against all known magical and mortal cheating methods. "A story," Seamus murmured. "A system without magic?"
"A system that beats magic," Alistair corrected gently. "Because it's rooted in the one thing even luck has to obey: probability. Let me demonstrate. A single deck, one of your dealers. No magic from them, none from me. Just the numbers."
Seamus studied him for a long, silent minute. Then he gave a sharp nod. "Maeve!" he barked.
A section of the pub wall slid aside, revealing a private gaming salon. At a pristine green felton table stood a pale, translucent Banshee dealer, her hair flowing like mist, her eyes pools of quiet sorrow. She held a deck of cards that seemed to whisper with lost wagers.
"One deck," Seamus said, taking a seat at the table. His guards fanned out. "Demonstrate your 'prophecy,' Dr. Finch."
Alistair sat. "Alright, Kassy," he thought, knowing the sword could sense his intent through their bond. *"Time to be the world's fastest abacus. Just vibrate the running count against my spine. Plus one for 2-6, minus one for 10-Ace."
"I am a legendary blade, not a pocket calculator," her voice grumbled in his mind, clear as a bell. "This is demeaning. Also, the six of clubs just came out. That's a plus one. Running count: plus one. You're welcome."
Alistair placed a single, gold-plated chip—courtesy of Seamus—on the table. "Deal."
The Banshee's hands moved like shifting fog. Alistair played basic strategy, hitting on 15 against a 10, standing on 17. But with each card, a subtle, coded pulse against his spine from the sword at his back.
Plus one. Minus one. Plus one. Running count: plus three.
"The deck is warming up," Alistair murmured to Seamus as the dealer prepared the next hand. The count was now +5. He doubled his bet.
The Leprechaun boss watched, his cybernetic eye recording every card. Alistair was dealt a 10 and a 3. The dealer showed a 6. The running count vibrated against his spine: +7.
"A prophecy, Seamus," Alistair said, not touching his cards. "The next card I draw will be a nine. Of diamonds, I think." He signaled for a hit.
The Banshee's spectral finger slipped the card from the shoe. She flipped it. The Nine of Diamonds.
A soft, collective intake of breath came from the Leprechaun guards. Seamus's organic eye went wide. His mechanical one whirred furiously.
Alistair played three more hands, calling two out of three hits correctly based on the high count, building the pot. He wasn't winning every hand—the system didn't work that way—but he was demonstrating an undeniable, statistical advantage. He finally stood, pushing his winnings—a modest stack—back toward the center. "The system works. Imagine it applied to every table, by every one of your… associates. Not to win every hand, but to tilt the river of fortune permanently in your direction."
Seamus was silent, staring at the cards as if seeing them for the first time. The potential was unfolding in his mind, vaster than any single artifact. This was a new kind of gold mine.
"The knowledge," Seamus said finally, his voice hushed. "The full system. Written down. A sacred text of this prophecy."
Alistair reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a sleek tablet. With a few taps, he brought up a presentation. It had animated graphs, step-by-step instructions, and even a clip from the movie Rain Man. "Everything you need. The Gospel of the Running Count."
Seamus looked from the tablet to the scabbard under its glass dome. The calculation in his eyes was almost audible. Finally, he smiled, a thin, golden smile. "The vault. Midnight. You bring the text. I bring the bauble. A clean trade."
He stood, extending a small, leathery hand. Alistair shook it. The grip was surprisingly strong.
"A pleasure doing business with a fellow scholar of probability, Seamus," Alistair said, his own smile bright and genuine.
"Until midnight, Dr. Finch," Seamus replied, his cybernetic eye giving one final, whirring scan. "Don't be late. The vault's protections are… time-sensitive."
Back in the garish glow of the main casino floor, Alistair let out a slow breath. "Well?" Kassy's voice chimed in his head.
"It went perfectly," Alistair thought, making his way toward the exit.
"That's what worries me," the sword replied. "Leprechauns are contract lawyers born from fairy trickery. A 'clean trade' is their version of a trap. You do know that, right?"
"Of course I know that," Alistair whispered, his cheerful mask still in place for the cameras. "But you have to let the other guy think he's the one setting the trap. It's only polite."
He stepped out into the dry Nevada night, the electric green glow of the Emerald Isle at his back. The trade was set. Now, he just had to survive it.