Chapter 16: The Second Night
The morning was thick with silence. A dense fog had rolled over Daiyo before dawn, swallowing the city whole in a heavy, ghostly shroud. The streets, normally alive with the clamor of merchants, gamblers, and night-drifters lingering after a long evening of indulgence, were eerily still. A deep, unsettling hush settled over the buildings, their tiled rooftops peeking through the mist like the jagged teeth of some slumbering beast.
The air was damp and suffocating, heavy with the scent of wet stone and distant ash. The city was waking, but it did so begrudgingly, as if the weight of the fog pressed upon it, refusing to allow the morning to begin in full. The torches lining the streets burned dim, their flames flickering behind layers of haze, casting long, distorted shadows onto the cobbled paths below.
Somewhere, a stray dog barked, its sound swallowed almost instantly by the thick air.
And then, through the fog, a shadow moved.
It came slowly, each step deliberate, heavy against the cobblestones. Its presence seemed to carve through the mist like a blade, its shape materializing with each calculated movement. Wrapped in a thick black coat that draped from head to toe, the figure's form was swallowed in darkness, a shifting silhouette against the pale, muted gray of the cityscape. The coat was long, trailing behind in a slow, sweeping motion as it walked.
There was an unsettling grace to its movement, like a king walking through his court, savoring the anticipation of kneeling subjects. The figure did not rush, nor hesitate—it simply was, existing in the space with the unquestioned authority of something greater than human.
A boot scraped against the stone. Another step forward. Then another.
The shadow approached the first few buildings of Daiyo, the small, wooden shops lining the entrance to the city barely visible through the mist. And then, as if addressing the very air itself, a voice slipped through the gloom—low, melodic, and unbearably slow.
"And so it begins…"
The words slithered into the silence, wrapping around the morning like a vice. They were not loud, yet they carried, weaving through the fog and sinking into the bones of the city itself.
A pair of city guards stood stationed near the entrance, their figures barely visible through the haze. Their spears stood at their sides, their faces cast in the half-light of morning. Neither of them moved.
Neither of them noticed.
The figure passed by them as if it were nothing more than another shadow, slipping between the cracks of their awareness, stepping through the city gates unchallenged, unseen.
It did not stop. It did not glance to the side. It continued forward, the mist clinging to its form like the embrace of a phantom.
And Daiyo, the great city of indulgence and ruin, welcomed it without knowing.
---
Hours later, far from the city gates, in the dim confines of a small rented room, Yogan awoke to the unmistakable sensation of being murdered by his own body.
Pain shot through his skull in violent pulses, like an Earth Kingdom smith hammering metal inside his brain. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with sand, each breath scraping against his dry throat. His stomach twisted, unsettled by the remains of whatever poison he had willingly poured down his throat the night before.
He groaned, long and suffering, his voice hoarse. His arms felt like dead weight, his muscles sluggish and uncooperative as he turned onto his side, pressing his forehead against the cool fabric of the pillow in a desperate attempt to soothe his burning skull.
"Spirits damn me…" he rasped, barely able to recognize his own voice.
His stomach churned at the memory of warm sake, the countless cups, the way it had tasted so good—before it turned into this living nightmare.
Slowly, painfully, he cracked his eyes open. The dim light filtering through the wooden slats of the window sent another dagger of pain through his skull, and he immediately regretted his decision.
The room was unfamiliar. His senses were sluggish, memories struggling to piece themselves together. He lay in a bed that was not his own, the sheets slightly tangled around his legs. The scent of faint perfume lingered on the air, and—
Mariko.
The thought stirred in his fogged mind, and slowly, painfully, he turned his head, searching for her. The other side of the bed was empty.
He squinted, fighting through the ache of his headache, forcing himself to recall. She had said something about work. He exhaled, groaning as he dragged a hand over his face.
"Never again," he muttered, though he knew damn well that was a lie.
With the will of a man carrying the weight of an entire kingdom, he forced himself upright. The world tilted dangerously, his vision swimming, but he gritted his teeth and endured. Slowly, he shifted, planting his feet onto the wooden floor.
His robes lay draped over a nearby chair, the familiar yellow and brown fabric slightly wrinkled. He grabbed them, throwing them over his shoulders before pulling them into place, his movements sluggish. He ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing it back as he steadied himself.
Outside the window, the midday sun blazed down mercilessly, the light cutting through the remnants of morning fog, warming the air.
Midday. He had slept the whole damn morning away.
With an exhausted sigh, he pulled himself together and staggered toward the door.
---
The moment Yogan stepped into the inn's tavern, the scent of roasted meat and sizzling spices hit him like a physical force. His stomach twisted in protest, his body still waging war against itself.
At a table near the center of the room, Rilo sat, already deep into a meal, tearing into a piece of thick, juicy meat with practiced enthusiasm. The older Rilo glanced up, spotted Yogan's misery, and smirked.
"Well, look who finally crawled out of his grave."
Yogan dropped into the chair opposite him, groaning as he slumped forward. "I feel like death."
Rilo snorted. "Looks like it too. So? Was it worth it?"
Yogan shot him a half-hearted glare. "You're too cheerful."
"That's because I didn't drink myself into oblivion." He waved a hand at the approaching waiter. "Get him some sake. And food. He needs it."
Yogan groaned. "No sake. Spirits, no."
Rilo smirked, but before he could push further, the waiter returned, setting a plate of steaming meat and rice in front of Yogan.
As the conversation flowed, Rilo recounted the night's events with amusement, teasing Yogan about Mariko. Yogan groaned through his hangover, waving off Rilo's jabs, his focus shifting between the food and surviving.
"No," he said, shaking his head immediately. "Absolutely not."
Rilo, mid-bite into his meal, arched an eyebrow. "Oh, come on. You're already suffering. Might as well take the edge off."
Yogan glared at him through the dull haze of his headache. "That's exactly how I got into this mess in the first place."
"And?" Rilo grinned, setting his meat down and reaching for the sake bottle. With practiced ease, he poured a cup for himself, the clear liquid swirling as it filled the small ceramic dish. "That's just part of being in Daiyo, my friend. You came here for the experience, didn't you?"
Yogan groaned, rubbing his temple. His body was still recovering, his stomach flipping at the mere thought of alcohol, but—Spirits damn him—Rilo was right. He was in Daiyo. If ever there was a city where indulgence was the rule rather than the exception, it was here.
With a sigh of resignation, he reached forward and grabbed the bottle, pouring himself a shallow cup. He lifted it hesitantly, sniffing the contents like a man checking for poison.
Rilo smirked. "It won't kill you."
"I'm not so sure about that." Yogan narrowed his eyes before knocking back the drink. The sake burned less than he expected, the warmth slipping down his throat and spreading through his limbs like a slow, creeping fire. His shoulders slumped as the familiar heat settled in his chest.
"There you go," Rilo said approvingly. He took a sip of his own drink, sighing with satisfaction before leaning back in his chair. "You look like you need it after last night."
Yogan gave him a dry look. "Speaking of which… how did you end up doing?"
Rilo's grin widened. He drummed his fingers against the wooden table, the glint in his eyes unmistakable—the look of a man who had walked away from a table much wealthier than when he had sat down.
"Oh, it was a fantastic night," Rilo said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "You, my dear friend, may have been busy getting tangled up with that lovely waitress of yours, but I was busy pulling off one of the finest runs of luck I've ever had."
Yogan narrowed his eyes. "How much?"
Rilo grinned wider, taking another sip of sake before answering. "Enough."
"That's not an answer."
Rilo leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "Alright, let's just say I walked in with a decent handful of coins and walked out comfortably set for the next few weeks."
Yogan scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "Lucky bastard."
Rilo chuckled. "Luck is a skill in Daiyo, Yogan. You have to know how to read a table, how to feel the room. You'd be surprised how much you can tell about a man just by watching the way he plays."
"Or maybe you just cheat," Yogan countered dryly.
Rilo placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "I would never."
Yogan rolled his eyes, but he couldn't deny that Rilo knew what he was doing. He had seen the man gamble before, and there was no doubt he had an instinct for it—or he was just ridiculously lucky. Either way, it seemed Daiyo had been kind to him last night.
"So," Yogan exhaled, running a hand through his loose black hair, "I assume that means you want to go back tonight?"
Rilo's grin turned devilish. "What gave it away?"
Yogan groaned, setting his cup down. "I knew it."
"You act like it's a bad thing," Rilo said, tilting his head. "This city thrives on risk, Yogan. You should embrace it."
Yogan shook his head. "Last night was already more than enough for me."
Rilo smirked, watching him with knowing amusement. "Oh, really? Are you sure that has nothing to do with a certain waitress?"
Yogan's jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Rilo laughed, drumming his fingers against the table. "Right, sure. You just happened to disappear, and she just happened to be missing at the exact same time." He leaned forward, voice teasing. "How was she?"
Yogan exhaled through his nose, reaching for his sake cup and downing another sip just to avoid answering.
Rilo snorted. "That good, huh?"
Yogan sighed. "Can we not do this right now?"
"Oh, come on, Yogan. I need details." Rilo leaned in with an expectant grin. "You, of all people, getting caught up with a woman in Daiyo? That's something I have to hear about."
Yogan pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are insufferable."
Rilo chuckled, taking another sip of sake. "Fine, fine. I'll let you off the hook—for now. But that just means you owe me tonight."
Yogan raised an eyebrow. "Owe you?"
"Absolutely." Rilo leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. "We're going back to the casino tonight, and you're going to join me at the tables."
Yogan exhaled slowly. "I don't gamble, Rilo."
"You drink, though," Rilo pointed out. "And the casino's got plenty of that."
Yogan frowned, considering. He really wasn't in the mood for another long night of excess, but at the same time…
His mind drifted, unbidden, back to Mariko. He had told himself he wouldn't go back, that one night had been enough, but something about the way she had looked at him—the way she had lingered—made him uncertain.
He sighed. Damn It.
"Fine," Yogan relented, rubbing his temples. "I'll go."
Rilo grinned. "Atta boy."
"But I'm not gambling."
Rilo waved a hand dismissively. "Sure, sure. We'll see how long that lasts."
Yogan groaned. "I hate you."
Rilo chuckled, lifting his sake cup. "To Daiyo, my friend."
Yogan rolled his eyes but clinked his cup against Rilo's anyway, sighing as he took another sip.
The night ahead was already shaping up to be trouble.
And somehow, he knew he wasn't going to avoid it.
---
By the time evening fell over Daiyo, the city had come alive in a way that was utterly unique to places like this—places that thrived not on necessity, but on desire.
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of indigo and gold, and the streets were once again flooded with movement. Lanterns hung from wooden posts and storefronts, their warm glow spilling across the cobbled roads, illuminating the people who wandered between them—merchants counting the day's profits, drunkards stumbling from one tavern to another, courtesans offering coy smiles to men weighed down by both wealth and vice.
And, at the center of it all, stood the heart of Daiyo—the massive casino, looming over the city like a temple devoted to indulgence.
The structure was grand, built with the kind of meticulous craftsmanship that was usually reserved for palaces. Its exterior was lined with ornate carvings of dragons and tigers, symbols of fortune and power, their forms twisting through the beams and pillars in elaborate dances. Thick banners of emerald and crimson hung from the upper balconies, fluttering lazily in the night breeze. From within, the muffled sounds of music, laughter, and the rhythmic clatter of dice and cards filled the air.
This was not just a place of gambling—it was a world unto itself, a place where people came to lose themselves.
And, despite his better judgment, Yogan was stepping into it once again.
The interior was just as overwhelming as the night before. The air was thick with the scent of incense and alcohol, mingling with the rich aroma of roasted meats from the casino's lavish dining areas. The flickering glow of lanterns cast elongated shadows over the crowded room, highlighting the golden embroidery that decorated the tables and walls.
Yogan exhaled through his nose as he adjusted to the sensory overload. The warmth of the sake he had reluctantly consumed earlier still lingered in his veins, dulling the sharpness of his usual awareness but not enough to make him forget exactly where he was.
Rilo, of course, was already in his element.
"Now we're talking," he said, stretching his arms as he scanned the room. "You feel that, Yogan? That's the feeling of fortune waiting to be claimed."
Yogan scoffed. "That's the feeling of idiots handing over their money and calling it luck."
Rilo grinned, clapping him on the back. "Spoken like a man who's never had a proper win."
"I prefer keeping my money."
"And I prefer multiplying mine." Rilo's eyes gleamed as he scanned the room, already searching for his first table of the night.
Before Yogan could reply, a familiar voice called out from across the hall.
"Well, well, if it isn't the survivors from last night!"
Yogan turned his head to see the pair of young men from the night before—the musician and his friend, both grinning as they approached, their cheeks already carrying the light flush of alcohol.
The musician had his instrument slung over his back, and his companion—the one who had been stacking coins absentmindedly last time—was tossing a single gold piece in the air and catching it, over and over.
"Back so soon?" the musician teased, stopping beside them. "Did Daiyo's charm prove too tempting to resist?"
Rilo chuckled, grabbing Yogan by the shoulder. "You know how it is—some of us are here to win, and some of us…" He glanced at Yogan. "…are just here for the scenery."
The musician laughed. "Well, I suppose that makes two of us, then." He patted his instrument. "I'm only here for the atmosphere."
His friend snorted, flipping his coin once more. "That's a lie. You just lost too much last night to try again."
Yogan smirked. "Smart man."
The musician sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Ah, but see, I was merely distracted. I would have won it all back if someone hadn't dragged me into a drinking contest instead." He shot a look at his companion, who shrugged.
"Hey, you agreed to it."
"Because you bet me I couldn't outdrink you."
"And you couldn't."
The musician sighed in defeat before grinning at Yogan and Rilo. "Anyway, you two up for drinks?"
Rilo answered before Yogan could. "Absolutely."
Yogan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course we are."
The four of them found a table near the back of the casino, tucked away from the more raucous crowds yet still close enough to feel the hum of the energy around them. A server arrived almost immediately, setting down a fresh bottle of sake along with four cups.
Yogan, having already resigned himself to the night's inevitable course, accepted the first pour without argument. The warmth of the alcohol was familiar now, sinking into his stomach as the first sip slid down his throat.
"So," Rilo said, leaning back with a smirk. "What's the real reason you two come to this place? Can't be just for the gambling."
The musician chuckled, setting his cup down. "Oh, there's more to Daiyo than gambling, my friend."
"Like what?"
The man's companion smirked. "Like opportunities."
Rilo raised an eyebrow. "Opportunities?"
The musician nodded. "You'd be surprised what kinds of people pass through this place. There are men here who have more money than sense, and others who would kill for a proper chance at fortune."
Yogan exhaled. "Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen."
"Only if you don't know how to play the game," the musician replied smoothly.
The conversation flowed easily, drifting from gambling to stories of cities they had all passed through, each man sharing their own experiences of travel, trouble, and triumph.
At some point, another round of drinks arrived, and Yogan found himself laughing at a particularly absurd story the musician was telling about an old noble who had bet his entire estate on a single roll of dice—only to watch it slip away in an instant.
"That can't be real," Yogan said, shaking his head.
"Oh, it's real," the musician's friend confirmed, smirking. "And the best part? The man didn't even seem that upset about it. Just stood up, dusted himself off, and walked out like nothing had happened."
Rilo whistled. "Now that's a man who understands gambling."
"That's a man who's lost his damn mind," Yogan corrected.
Laughter filled the table, and for a while, the night felt simple—just four men enjoying drinks, the weight of the outside world temporarily forgotten.
But Daiyo was a city of unpredictability, a place where the night could shift in an instant.
And as the casino doors swung open once again, allowing a new wave of guests to filter inside, none of them noticed the lone figure in black stepping through the threshold—silent, slow, and moving with the unshakable certainty of a predator slipping into its hunting ground.
The ceramic cup trembled slightly in Yogan's hand as he lifted it once again, the sake within sloshing over the rim. He had long since lost count of how many rounds they had shared, but at this point, it hardly mattered. The heat of the alcohol burned comfortably in his stomach, dulling the edges of his awareness, loosening the weight in his limbs.
Across the table, Rilo was leaning back with a lazy grin, his long black hair tumbling over his shoulders, the faintest flush dusting his cheekbones. The musician and his friend were in similar states of drunken ease, their postures looser, their voices louder, their laughter carried freely into the bustling air of the casino.
The musician was the first to properly introduce himself, setting down his empty cup and placing a hand dramatically over his heart.
"Alright, alright. Names, gentlemen! We've been drinking, we've been laughing—but—" He lifted a single finger, wobbling slightly in his seat. "We don't even know each other's names."
His friend snorted. "You don't even remember yours, do you?"
"Shut up, I do." The musician turned his attention back to Yogan and Rilo, his grin wide and reckless. "I'm Kenshiro. My dear, brutal friend here—" he gestured lazily beside him, nearly knocking over the sake bottle in the process, "—is Haru."
Haru, a man of solid build and a slightly quieter demeanor, rolled his eyes. He had the look of someone who had spent years keeping a wild friend out of trouble—short, jet-black hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, sharp, dark eyes that still carried an edge of sobriety despite the drinks. His jaw was square, his cheekbones pronounced, giving him the kind of face that seemed like it had been carved from stone.
Kenshiro, on the other hand, had an entirely different energy. His shoulder-length brown hair was unruly, constantly falling into his face despite his many attempts to flick it back. His sharp features carried a perpetual smirk, and his eyes gleamed with the mischief of a man who had never once considered the consequences of his actions.
"And you two?" Kenshiro asked, pointing between them with a slow, deliberate movement that suggested he was seeing double.
Rilo clapped a hand against his chest. "Rilo," he said smoothly, before jerking a thumb toward Yogan. "This poor bastard is Yogan."
Yogan sighed, running a hand through his disheveled black hair. "Yeah. That's me."
Haru raised an eyebrow. "Airbender, huh?"
Yogan nodded.
Kenshiro grinned. "Damn. Didn't think you monks were allowed to get this drunk."
"Not a monk," Yogan corrected, his words slightly slurred. "Not anymore."
Rilo leaned in with a knowing smirk. "Oh, he's had his share of spiritual awakenings, alright."
Kenshiro let out a sharp laugh. "Is that so? Well then, Yogan—" he poured another round of sake for all of them, "—welcome to the world of sinners."
They raised their cups in a messy, uncoordinated toast, sake spilling across the table as they clinked their drinks together before downing them.
The warmth In Yogan's chest deepened, and the world around him tilted pleasantly.
As the conversation meandered between drunken nonsense and half-forgotten stories, Kenshiro's grin turned particularly sly.
"So, Yogan," he started, voice drawn out, "about that waitress…"
Rilo burst into laughter immediately, nearly choking on his drink. "Ohhh, here we go."
Yogan groaned. "Spirits damn it."
Haruo leaned forward, interested now. "Wait, wait—what waitress?"
Kenshiro tapped the table in excitement. "The gorgeous one from last night! You should've seen her, Haru. Eyes like the deep sea, and damn—the way she looked at him."
Rilo nudged Yogan roughly. "Tell them, man."
Yogan exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Her name is Mariko."
Kenshiro and Haru exchanged glances before grinning. "Ohhh," Kenshiro drawled. "He emphasized her name. That means it's serious."
"It's not serious," Yogan muttered, taking another sip of sake.
"Oh, bullshit," Rilo scoffed. "You disappeared. She disappeared. You reappeared looking very well-rested."
Haru snorted. "Sounds pretty serious to me."
Yogan groaned. "Spirits, help me."
"She already did," Kenshiro teased, waggling his eyebrows.
The entire table erupted in drunken laughter, and Yogan had no choice but to suffer through it.
Before he could argue further, a new dish was placed onto the table—a platter of spicy grilled meat, its rich scent wafting through the air. The steam rising from it carried the sharp tang of searing spices, the kind that clung to the nose and made the eyes water.
"Oh, this looks deadly," Rilo muttered, already reaching for a piece.
"Good," Kenshiro grinned. "Let's burn."
They each took a bite, and immediately, the heat exploded in their mouths.
"Spirits—!" Yogan coughed, slamming a fist onto the table. His throat burned, the fire spreading like molten lava.
"Ohhhhhh," Rilo wheezed, grabbing his cup of sake and downing it instantly. "That's a mistake! The alcohol makes it worse!"
"Why didn't you warn me sooner?!" Yogan snapped, reaching for his own cup.
Haru, for all his quiet composure, was struggling too—his eyes watering, his lips slightly parted as he breathed through the pain.
Kenshiro, however, was thriving. "YES. YES!" He grabbed another piece. "I LIVE FOR THIS!"
"You're a monster," Yogan wheezed.
Despite the agony, they kept eating, their bodies adjusting to the searing heat, the sake washing down the spice in a way that left them feeling alive—burning, but alive.
As the fire in their mouths settled into a comfortable smolder, Kenshiro leaned in, drumming his fingers against the table.
"Alright, Yogan," he said, voice smooth and coaxing. "Time for the question."
Yogan groaned. "No."
"You don't even know what I was gonna say!"
"I know what you're gonna say."
Haru smirked. "Then answer it."
Yogan sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don't gamble."
Kenshiro threw his hands in the air. "Why?! What's the point of coming here if you're just gonna sit around and watch?"
"My teachings," Yogan muttered. "The temple forbids it."
"Oh, come on," Rilo groaned. "You're not a monk anymore! You said it yourself!"
Kenshiro clapped the table. "He's right! You're free, Yogan! No more rules!"
"I have personal discipline," Yogan argued, but even he wasn't convinced.
"You have fear," Kenshiro corrected. "Fear of losing, fear of taking a chance!"
Yogan's jaw tightened.
Haru folded his arms. "Look. Just one game. You lose, you walk away. You win—you win."
Silence stretched between them. The sake was thick in Yogan's veins, his head heavy, his resolve… wavering.
Finally, he exhaled.
"…Fine."
The entire table cheered.
Rilo slung an arm around his shoulder. "You won't regret this, my friend."
Yogan groaned. "I already do."
And with that, they rose, making their way toward the gambling tables—where luck, fate, and indulgence awaited.
[A/N: Can't wait to see what happens next? Get exclusive early access on patreon.com/saiyanprincenovels. If you enjoyed this chapter and want to see more, don't forget to drop a power stone! Your support helps this story reach more readers!]