The taxi hissed as its doors peeled open.
Kenzo stepped out onto the marble platform. In front, the Blagio Casino loomed, unchanged and waiting. Behind him, the taxi lifted off silently, vanishing into a sky lane, just another chrome streak swallowed by Neurospire.
The crowd hadn’t changed either: a storm of winners, losers, and the desperate flailing somewhere in between. Laughter tangled with curses. A jackpot burst fired confetti. Nearby, a scorched PvP bruiser, shirt torn, skin still smoking, staggered out, turned, and charged back in like the odds owed him vengeance.
Kenzo adjusted his collar and moved forward.
The casino welcomed him like a predator recognizing old prey.
He passed the XP-slot machines without a glance. Then stopped. Turned back.
Kaydrin: “Should try my luck. Get some XP.”
“I think it's foolish to bet, considering you have limited credits.”
“Well, I can spare a few credits.”
He stepped up to one of the glowing machines. Its voice chimed:
“Please place your hand on the scanner to begin.”
Kenzo obeyed.
The screen blinked.
[ Choose Bet Amount ] <<
Range: 100 – 9,999,999 T-Credits
Potential XP: 100 – 9,999,999 XP
Kenzo selected 1,000 T-Credits.
[ Confirmed ] <<
The four-slot display began to spin the symbols, blurring: strange yellow fruit, a dagger, a jackpot glyph, a pair of dice.
Grrrr.
Ting.
[ Congratulations – XP Received: 100 XP ] <<
Kenzo sighed. “Seriously?”
A familiar voice in his ear: “Kenzo.”
“I know,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
He left the slot disappointed. And move towards the front desk.
The concierge NPC stood still, near-human in form except for the twelve-sided dice rotating in its pupils.
“Welcome back to the Blagio,” it said, voice smooth and synthetic. “No Platinum Partner badge detected. Would you like to book a suite, secure an exclusive table, or—”
“I need to see Mr. Aeon,” Kenzo cut in.
A pause.
The dice-eyes spun faster.
Click-click-click.
Double sixes.
“Of course,” the concierge replied. He gestured towards the nearby wall, which shimmered and then reshaped into a door.
Above it, in scrolling Roboto font:
“In Aeon We Trust.”
Kenzo exhaled, adjusted the strap on his inventory belt, and walked through.
The floor didn’t drop. It recalibrated into layers of probability shifting like tectonic plates. Without a sound, he descended into a shaft of kaleidoscopic light and whispered odds.
The walls didn’t open; they reconfigured.
The shimmering corridor folded around Kenzo like a solved equation, and without transition, he was standing somewhere else. His HUD stuttered, tried to anchor coordinates, then gave up with a soft chime:
>>[ LOCATION UNKNOWN // PROBABILITY FIELD INTERFERENCE ]<<
The office was massive but not in any human sense. Dimensions misbehaved. Corners overlapped. Angles whispered. The air smelled of polished metal, ozone, perfume, and the faint heat of something rigged and spinning like a slot machine in mid-meltdown.
Above, where a ceiling might’ve been, a cosmic stock ticker unspooled endlessly, which was broadcasting real-time updates: PvP margins, rarity crate ratios, artifact inflation curves, bets still waiting to collapse, and casino winnings.
At the center stood a desk. It was half a baccarat table and half an algorithmic war console. Its surface was alive with shifting lights, projected odds, and pulsing heatmaps. Beneath translucent layers, Kenzo glimpsed win/loss graphs folding inward like breathing lungs.
And seated behind it: Aeon - the demigod.
The Algorithmic Entity of Odds and Nexus.
He looked like a businessman designed by a slot machine. His suit was midnight silk, subtly animated with faint gold numerics crawling up the lapels like digital embroidery. Each step he would later take left tiny footprints of shimmering light. His skin was too smooth, too symmetrical, like high-res glass just before it glitches. His tie clip? A crystal die, constantly rolling behind sealed glass.
And his eyes.
One was steel gray, controlled, and calm.
The other was a slow-spinning slot reel. Ancient symbols flickered. A dice, skulls, stars, blank tiles, and keys. It blinked once. Landed on a seven. Then resumed spinning.
He was mid-sentence.
“... No, I told her of the five percent variance or nothing. If she wanted a guaranteed payout, she should’ve invested in Sol_Kicks NFTs like the rest of the winners.”
His voice: smooth, calculated, lightly bored, like someone who'd explained the laws of risk to a thousand slower minds.
There was no one else in the room.
He swirled his drink, something pale and crackling, like liquefied static, and finally looked up.
“Ah,” Aeon said. “Mr. Kenzo Tsung. How can I help you?”
Kenzo stepped forward, steady. “I’m here about one of your employees. Caedra.”
Aeon’s reel-eye slowed. A soft click. Three skulls. He didn’t blink.
“Ah. The high school Girl,” he said, nodding with polite approval. “Bright. Quick. Chronically overleveraged.”
He tapped a control. A translucent model of Caedra hovered in the air, then unraveled into a spiraling debt chart that plummeted into deep red.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
“She owes six million, three hundred forty thousand T-Credits. Not including interest or gear collateral. If you’re here to settle the full amount…” He smiled. “I’ll gladly void her contract.”
Kenzo shook his head. “I’m not here to buy her freedom.”
Aeon tilted his head, intrigued.
“I’m here to win it.”
The desk pulsed. The lights shifted. Aeon leaned forward, hands folding together like a dealer about to shuffle.
“Go on.”
Kenzo took a breath. “The Grand Colosseum. Solo bracket. One thousand entrants.”
Aeon gave a soft chuckle.
“Level sixty-eight. No clan. No sponsorships. No class unlocked. And you’re entering a bracket with three-fifties, NPCs, and entire clans colluding to funnel wins to their chosen champions.”
He sipped his drink.
“You’re not just an underdog, Mr. Tsung. You’re a statistical fluke in a meat grinder.”
He tapped the air once.
“Your win probability just adjusted to... 0.0021%.”
“That’s what makes it a good bet,” Kenzo said.
Aeon studied him for a long, flickering second. Then, without a word, he stood and turned to the wall behind his desk. A seamless slab of obsidian data-glass shimmering with a thousand glowing threads.
It pulsed once. Updated.
A new entry scrolled into place at the bottom of a vertical list titled:
[ PERSONAL BETS – ACTIVE ]
The letters burned gold, each one etched into the air like it had been signed by entropy itself.
ENTRY 883
PLAYER ID: KENZO TSUNG
OUTCOME PROJECTION: LOSS
STATUS: PENDING <<
“And what’s your offer?” Aeon asked.
Kenzo didn’t look away. “If I win the solo bracket, Caedra walks. Debt cleared. Inventory restored. Contract erased.”
Aeon swirled his drink again. “And if you lose?”
Kenzo paused. “You decide.”
Aeon smiled. Not warmly. Like a man who'd just drawn the right card.
“Dangerous words, Mr. Tsung.”
“I figured you’d appreciate the risk.”
“I don’t appreciate risk,” Aeon said, rising. “I embody it.”
He walked slowly behind the desk. The air recalibrated around him. Cards flipped. Light dimmed.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s raise the stakes.”
A large, translucent die hummed and rose from the center of the table.
“One roll. Determines your bracket pool.”
“Bracket pool?”
“Six-sided die. One face… Legendary Tier. Mythics. Hall-of-Famers. Entities flagged
‘Not Advised for Narrative Fairness.’”
Aeon grinned. “I do love drama.”
Kenzo said nothing.
Aeon continued. “If you win, Caedra walks. All penalties voided. I’ll even throw in a loot box. A fresh start for her.”
“And if I lose?” Kenzo asked, already knowing.
“You will work for me, Mr.T,” Aeon said. “Three hundred years. No PvP. No fast travel. No exceptions. You’ll serve drinks. Clean rooms. Wash dishes. Every day. Until the debt is paid in time, not credits.”
Kenzo exhaled.
“Fine.”
Aeon raised a finger.
“One final clause,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Every Colosseum season, you compete. Whether you win, lose, or bleed. That choice? Mine. And all the loot you collect. Legendary, garbage, or otherwise, belongs to the House.”
Kenzo didn’t blink.
“Deal.”
The personal bet chart was being updated…
>>[
ENTRY 883:
PLAYER ID: KENZO TSUNG
STATUS: LIVE
BRACKET: SOLO – GRAND COLOSSEUM
ODDS: 0.0021%
STAKE: CAEDRA’S CONTRACT + One Loot Box
FORFEIT CONDITION: HOUSE SERVICE – 300Y
]<<
Aeon said nothing else.
He simply raised his glass in a mock salute. The crystal die on his tie clip ticked once, rolling into a blank face, and the lights in the office recalibrated. The walls folded inward again.
The air shifted, and Kenzo found himself standing once more in the main lobby of the Blagio Casino.
No one acknowledged him. But they noticed.
Players at nearby tables flicked glances in his direction. XP-slot machines flickered as he passed, reshuffling welcome bonuses. Even the background music stuttered, adjusted tempo, just slightly.
Kenzo opened his HUD.
[ Contact: Han-Jee ]
“Kenzo: Han-Jee, when do we apply?”
[ Message Sent ]
[ Delivered ]
Nothing for a moment.
Beep!
Han-Jee: Meet us at the Colosseum. Main entrance. Tonight, 8 p.m.
Kenzo closed the tab, exhaled once, and left the Blagio.
The moment he stepped outside:
“Kaydrin,” Kenzo muttered. “What do you think of the bet?”
Her voice flickered softly in his mind.
“You need to focus. The terms are bad. Three hundred years of servitude will halt our progress.”
Kenzo frowned. “Then why were you silent back there? In Aeon’s office?”
“I had to be,” she said. “If I’d spoken, he would’ve sensed me. And if he sensed me, he’d contact Kaelis. Then we’d have bigger problems than a debt contract.”
A pause.
“Just... be careful.”
“I got this.”
“Let’s hope you do,” he murmured. “Because I have a very bad feeling about this.”
The city was louder now.
Not in sound, but in intent.
The skyline buzzed. Banners flickered. Transport lines surged with players inbound from every district. Holo-ads hovered above buildings like verdicts waiting to drop.
Every corner of Neurospire knew: the Grand Colosseum was about to open.
Kenzo moved slowly, weaving through crowds already tailgating the arena gates. Gamblers, vloggers, streamers, recruiters, bounty hunters, and black-market buffsellers, each hawking promises of power, money, or glory.
The closer he got, the heavier the air felt.
By the time he reached the Colosseum’s main entrance, the sky had deepened to violet, streaked with banners of electric gold. Most came from top-tier clans, recruiting fresh blood. More members meant more tax claimed from PvP zones and event loot.
And every banner flexed its fame:
Banner 1: Elaran Gate
“Once Atrox stood here. Now he owns the Elaran Gate.”
Banner 2: Black Noir
“100,000 T-Credits for the first 100 who join us in this time-limited event.”
Banner 3: Shardveil
“Lift your veil. Earn your reward.”
Banner 4: Ember Pact
A phoenix crest glowing with fire
“Proud sponsor of the 100th Arena Game.”
Banner 5: Umbra Crown
“The kingdom belongs to the crown.”
The Grand Colosseum itself loomed like a myth carved from ego and ambition, part arena, part fortress, part cathedral.
It wasn’t just wide. It was tall. Layered in death-match towers, viewing tiers, and private teleportation gates for high rollers.
Thousands of players swarmed the base.
Gladiator skins. Alien warforms. Twenty-foot mech suits. All queueing to apply.
Kenzo scanned the crowd and spotted them right near the main gate.
Six silhouettes. Casual. Tense.
Han-Jee sat on the edge of a planter, idly spinning a blade between two fingers.
Marqos leaned against a pillar, arms folded, one foot tapping like he was already waiting to die.
Lira sat cross-legged on the ground, chewing something bright red and illegal.
Korran had a data tablet out, watching match replays with surgical boredom.
And Tessa stood slightly apart, arms crossed, eyes on the Colosseum spires like she was already mapping her climb.
Kenzo slowed as he approached.
Han-Jee looked up. “About time. You look rough.”
Kenzo rolled his eyes. “And yet I’m still prettier than you.”
“You wish.”
Lira looked up from her snack. “Hey.”
Kenzo nodded. “Hey, all.”
“Hay,” Marqos muttered.
Tessa didn’t move. She just nodded. “Are you ready?”
Kenzo paused. “Are any of us?”
Korran finally looked up from his screen. “Doesn’t matter. Entry opens in five.”
Right on cue, a soft chime echoed above them. A countdown appeared midair, projected above the gates in gold lettering:
>>[ GRAND COLOSSEUM ENTRY OPENS IN: 00:04:59 ]<<
They all looked up.
Silence fell.
Six players.
No clan.
No banners.
No sponsors.
No guarantees.
Only the moment. And the gamble.
