"We demand entry!" Sam declares boldly.
The guards stand firm.
"You cannot enter. It's restricted," one guard states with a clipped tone, his words as immovable as the stone wall.
Sam's eyes narrow. "The Guild Regulation Association has unfinished business with us. We paid for a service, and now we've come to collect."
The guard doesn't flinch. "It's forbidden, by order."
Sam raises a finger, pointing it directly at the guard's chest.
"You're skilled enough to recognize our guild," Sam begins. "And surely you're aware that the Guild Regulation Association owes us the affinity analysis service we paid for."
Sam steps forward, his tone lowers to a near-whisper, as if sharing a secret.
"Do you really wish to drag your organization's last shred of dignity through the mud? Especially now, when the Association falters in maintaining order. If they cannot uphold even their paid services, what trust is left to place in them? What guild regulation is there when the very enforcers of those rules fail to respect them?"
The guard hesitates, his eyes flicking to his colleague, seeking silent guidance. Perhaps the other guard, seasoned and familiar with the weight of such decisions, could offer a sign.
The answer comes in the form of a small, deliberate nod.
"You can go," the guard finally says. "But once you're done, you leave immediately."
Sam exhales.
"That's the plan."
They step through the gap in the colossal stone wall and are struck again by the stark contrast of the world beyond. It feels cleaner, quieter, and safer, yet something is undeniably amiss.
Compared to their last visit, Highcrest has changed. The streets are now more crowded, bustling with merchants who have nothing left to sell. Their stalls stand empty, their goods long traded away, likely in desperate bids to secure a place within these walls. The warriors, once proud and gleaming in their pristine armor, now move through the throng bearing the marks of wear, dirty, scratched, and some even visibly damaged.
The once-resplendent marble houses have also lost their luster. Dust clings to their surfaces, dulling their shine. Even a brief disruption of normalcy has begun to erode Highcrest's beauty.
As they move further into the heart of Highcrest, their eyes catch the sight of an empty training field in the distance. The once vibrant space now lies abandoned. Most of the refugees lack the skills or the desire to wield weapons, and the staff of the Guild Regulation Association is preoccupied with more urgent matters.
Roka's nose twitches.
"I think one of the guards is following us." he mutters.
"He's making sure we head to the center," he says calmly, though his eyes continue to sweep their surroundings. "We need to lose him. Follow me! We'll turn that corner and then we run."
The guard notices the subtle shift in their path and quickens his pace. He had sensed deception from the start, and now, his instincts are proven right. Abruptly, the pair veers left, disappearing around a corner in a burst of movement.
The guard rushes after them, rounding the same corner with determination, ready to catch sight. Yet, his expectations are dashed.
He finds no sign of the boys fleeing, instead a vast field filled with hundreds of men and women, clad in the humble, worn clothing of refugees. Their presence feels almost overwhelming, scattered among a forest of tents that serve as their temporary homes.
The guard stands still, his gaze sweeping across the field. His quarry has vanished into this sea of humanity, leaving him momentarily at a loss. He weights his options with a frustrated grimace.
"What luck to have," he mutters to himself.
Defeated, he turns on his heel and marches back toward the entrance, his task abandoned.
Hidden within one of the many tents, Sam and Roka remain perfectly still. Minutes pass like hours before the sound of the guard's footsteps fades completely.
They carefully slip out from their hiding place.
"We're free!" Roka exclaims. "We can go anywhere!"
"Let's head to the training field." Sam says with quiet determination.
Roka's face lights up with easy approval, the idea clearly resonating with him.
But as they move through the bustling crowd, something catches Sam's eye, a gathering of people circled tightly around a makeshift stall. It's a shell game.
Sam halts abruptly, his sharp eyes locked on the scene. Roka almost stumbles into him, confused by the sudden stop. But Sam doesn't notice. His head tilts down slightly, deep in thought, his mind weaving possibilities, plans, and risks.
Finally, he speaks.
"Did you know, Roka, that you're not a typical half-beast?"
Roka freezes, unsure of how to respond.
"Maybe it's the growth stones, but your bone structure, your skin, it's not like the others. You don't look like a normal half-beast."
Roka remembers the bodies of those he once lived alongside in the forest. Their stomachs were gaunt, their palms rough and alien compared to his own, which bear an unsettling resemblance to a human's. Their skin had a thin layer of fur, blending them seamlessly with the wild. His, however, was bare, smooth and far too human-like for his comfort.
The memories stir a sense of unease within him, a gnawing realization of how different he truly is.
"If we manage to mask your animal features, you could pass as human."
Roka furrows his brow. "Why should I?"
"Half-humans struggle with certain games because of their heightened senses. Your natural hearing gives you an advantage, a decisive one. One of those games is the shell game."
Sam raises his finger, pointing toward the dealer in the distance.
"The table and the cups are made from Crimson Wood. No one can use mana without it being noticed, no special enhancements for humans, no tricks."
***
Info: Crimson Wood is a special type of wood that is sensitive to mana. In its natural state, its color is white with a slight pink hue. However, when mana is applied around it, the wood changes color, becoming deep red with a subtle purple hue. Crimson Wood gradually loses its unique properties if exposed to mana repeatedly. Additionally, large quantities of mana can accelerate this degradation, rendering it ineffective even faster.
***
Sam turns back to Roka. "Do you understand?"
Roka narrows his eyes, hesitating before responding. "You want us to cheat."
Without a moment's pause, Sam pushes his elbows forward, revealing the worn fabric of he elbow patches to Roka. "Use your fangs and rip them open. There are two small silver coins sewn inside."
Roka hesitates only for a second before leaning in, his sharp fangs tearing through the stitches. The fabric yields, and as Sam promised, two small silver coins fall into view.
"We need to buy a hat and gloves, and tuck that tail out of sight," Sam states firmly, his tone carrying the weight of his plan.
They wander through the busy streets, weaving between the clusters of refugees and merchants. After a bit of searching and haggling, they manage to purchase a simple hat and a pair of gloves.
Roka wastes no time equipping them. The hat sits snugly on his head, concealing his animalistic ears, while the gloves mask his hands, lending him an almost human appearance. He adjusts his posture, trying to mimic the more rigid gait of those around him.
Satisfied with their work, Sam removes his glasses, squinting against the blurred world that greets him. His vision wavers. The disorientation makes him slightly unsteady, his footing uncertain.
The sharp and calculating Sam becomes a vulnerable participant, a perfect, easy target for the shell game dealer's tricks.
"He'll do everything to make me lose... I won't always choose the right cup. But no matter what happens, you signal me. Every round, tap the back of my leg, once if the ball is in the left cup, twice for the middle, and three times if it's on the right. Got it?"
Roka nods.
Sam twitches his left arm, a kunai slips into his palm.
Sam strides toward the shell game dealer, Roka trailing close behind.
"I want to play," he says with an air of innocence so convincing it could be mistaken for sincerity. "But I don't have money. I only have this." with the kunai in his hand.
The dealer is not much older than Sam and wears expensive clothes. His quick, smooth voice carries an air of practiced charm.
"No worries, my friend," he says with an effortless grin. "You can bet that kunai, and I'll put up a big silver coin. Come on, it's easy, you just have to keep your eye on the ball. What do you say?"
'My kunai is worth far more than a single silver coin. He'll probably let me win the first round, just to reel me in.' thinks Sam
"Sure," Sam responds, masking the thoughts swirling beneath.
He places the kunai on the table.
"Keep your eye on the cup! Keep your eye on the cup!" the dealer chants confidently, his hands deftly shuffling the three white cups across the Crimson Wood table.
This round is easy, the dealer's pace is relaxed, making it simple for Sam to track the cup's movements.
Roka's signal comes swiftly: one tap against Sam's leg.
"The left one!" Sam announces.
The dealer lifts the white cup. The crowd leans in, and there it is, the ball.
"Congrats! Congrats! You've got good eyes!" the dealer exclaims. "Next one! Next one! Who wants to play? Maybe you!" He gestures confidently toward a man nearby.
Sam's gaze shifts to the man the dealer pointed out.
'He has people who guard him' Sam notes silently, his sharp eyes scanning. 'He must have money.'
Before the man can respond, Sam's voice cuts through the chatter. "I want to play once more!" he shouts, his tone commanding and insistent.
The crowd turns their attention back to Sam, curiosity flickering in their expressions. The dealer's smile widens slightly, pleased to keep the excitement centered on his stall.
"I'll add this coin and the kunai,"
The dealer's grin sharpens, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
This time, the dealer ramps up his game. His hands blur as he shuffles the cups, their white surfaces flashing across the pale table. The pace is relentless, almost hypnotic. Sam struggles to keep up, his eyes darting between the cups, his focus strained to its limits. By the end of the shuffle, he's left with only a vague idea, the ball must be in the middle or the right cup.
Beside him, Roka concentrates, his heightened senses at work. A faint sound reaches his ears, the subtle shift of weight as the ball settles. The source is unmistakable: the left side. Roka taps Sam's leg once.
Sam feels the tap but doesn't react outwardly. Instead, his mind races, pieces of a new plan clicking into place.
"I think it's in the middle," he announces, deliberately going against Roka's signal.
The dealer lifts the middle cup with a dramatic flourish, empty. He reaches for the left cup. As it's raised, the ball sits triumphantly underneath.
"Bad luck, my friend, bad luck!" the dealer exclaims. "You're all out of bets now. Who's next?" He scans the crowd eagerly, already seeking his next target.
Sam steps back. His expression remains calm, but his mind churns. The man with the guards has moved forward, taking Sam's place at the table.
Sam's focus zeroes in on the man.
'He is smart, has to be'. Thoughts begin to swirl 'Can he be useful? Can he be trusted?'
Sam studies his body language.
After a few rounds at the shell game table, the man steps away, flanked by his guards. Sam, with Roka close at his side, moves swiftly to intercept him, cutting off his path.
The man stops, meeting Sam's unyielding stare.
With calculated precision, Sam reaches up and adjusts Roka's hat, tilting it just enough to reveal a glimpse of his animal ears. The effect is immediate. The man's eyes widen ever so slightly, a flicker of shock crossing his face. But he recovers quickly, his composure slipping back into place as if nothing had fazed him.
He studies them both intently for a moment, his sharp mind clearly assessing the situation. Then, with a curt nod, he makes his decision.
"Bring them to me," he orders his guards. "And don't let anyone hear us."
...
The man strides back to the dealer, his guards following closely behind. His presence demands attention.
"I'll keep playing," the man announces, his voice firm and deliberate. "But this time, he will choose." He gestures toward Sam.
The dealer eyes Sam warily but nods, ready to continue the game.
The bets start small, big silver coins at first, eventually escalating to a single small gold coin. Yet the stakes never climb too high, each wager carefully measured.
As the rounds progress, Sam plays the game with calculated precision. Sometimes he wins, drawing murmurs of approval from the crowd. Other times, he loses, but his expression remains unreadable. When the dealer shuffles with skill and speed, Sam appears to choose randomly, even when Roka's subtle taps guide him to the right answer.
Each loss is deliberate, carefully orchestrated to avoid drawing suspicion.
"That's enough!" the man shouts, his voice cutting through the noise. "I've seen enough! You've lost more money than you've won. This is the last game."
Sam doesn't flinch. His confidence holds steady as he talks.
"Have you seen my winnings when he really moves fast? I can guess the next one, no matter what. I promise you."
The man narrows his eyes, suspicion flickering across his face.
"The last one, then," Sam continues. "But I'm going to win it. No matter what."
Sam steps closer, his confidence unwavering as he delivers his challenge.
"If it's the last one, I want you to add more money."
"And if you lose..."
"I'll give it back," Sam replies without hesitation.
The man narrows his eyes, calculating the risk.
"All right then. We'll use a system contract."
***
Info: An system contract is a contract that can be agreed between two or more guilds. The information of the contract is stored in the Unity Crystals from the guilds involved. The contract is enforced, if needed, by the Guild Regulation Association.
***
A window materializes before Sam's eyes, glowing softly with text that only he can see:
System Contract:
If you lose the next game, you will pay the lost amount to the Goldberg Guild.
If you win the next game, you will receive 20% of the winnings.
1. Agree
2. Disagree
Sam's finger hovers over the first option. With a firm press, he agrees.
The system contract solidifies with a faint shimmer before disappearing from view.
"How much money do you have right now?" Sam asks, his face still without his glasses
The man hesitates for a brief moment before replying, "Ten big gold coins."
"Bet them all," he demands.
Gasps ripple through the crowd, murmurs rising like an uneasy tide.
Even the dealer falters, his normally confident demeanor briefly giving way to shock. He quickly regains his composure, suppressing his reaction and silently calculating his next move.
The dealer moves the cups, the speed being slower than the frantic pace of earlier rounds but just fast enough to keep the crowd guessing. The shuffling stretches on. Sam's focus is unwavering, his eyes fixed on the cup he believes holds the ball.
The dealer stops. Sam's gaze is locked on the center cup.
'It goes as expected.' he thinks. Inwardly, he allows himself a flicker of satisfaction, but his expression betrays nothing.
And then, the signal comes. Three deliberate taps on the back of his leg.
Sam snaps into action. His hand clamps down firmly on the right cup before the dealer can react. The white color of the cup remains undisturbed, no mana had been used in the game.
The dealer freezes, his confident facade cracking as fear flashes across his face.
Sam lifts the cup. The ball is there.
The crowd gasps, a wave of shock rippling through the onlookers.
Without hesitation, Sam seizes two big gold coins from the table. He spares the dealer one last piercing glance before turning on his heel and walking away, Roka close at his side.
Notification: System Contract respected
"Wait!" shouted the dealer trying to stop Sam and Roka from leaving.
The crowd closes in, a wall of bodies forming around the dealer.
The man who had bet the money steps forward.
"You owe me 10 big gold coins! I'm sure you have them."
In no time, Sam and Roka are out of sight, with one kunai lost but two big golden coins won.