The room was thick with tension—so heavy that half the spectators seemed to forget how to breathe. A Star Sequence was a hand someone might see once every 72,931 games.

Yet Ryn strolled in and got it. And he'd done it while beating the old man's Quad Eights.

But what surprised Ryn most wasn't the hand. It was the reactions of the other three players.

All of them wore pale, nervous expressions, hands raised in placating gestures.

"Now, now, Master… there's no need to get angry. It was only one game," Camellia soothed.

"Y–yeah! You make that kind of money in an hour! There's no need for this!" the noble brat stammered.

But every comment seemed to go through one ear and out the other.

Ryn frowned behind his mask.

Master? Why would Camellia call him Master? Unless…he wasn't just a player?

Then, a thought hit him.

To cheat so obviously within the hall and have no one bat an eye only meant one thing:

This man owned the House of Radiance…which meant this was the Auction Master.

Ryn's realization settled just as the old man's breath hitched.

Then—

He erupted.

His chair screeched backward as he slammed both hands onto the table, the impact rattling stacks of gold and nearly toppling Camellia's drink.

"YOU—!" he roared, humiliation ripping through his voice.

"You dare— YOU CHEATER!"

Several nearby gamblers flinched, while others froze completely.

Ryn didn't move.

He simply blinked at the old man, unimpressed.

"I cheated?" he echoed quietly.

"You manipulated the deck! You cheated!" he bellowed.

"You think you can pull that in my House?"

He jabbed a trembling finger across the felt at Ryn, breath ragged from the force of his rage. Veins bulged along his neck.

Camellia paled.

"Master, p-please—"

"Silence!" he snapped, and she recoiled.

The noble brat ducked his head. Even Raven stiffened, not daring to breathe.

"You walk into my den, humiliate me, and think I'll let you walk out?" His voice grew colder, quieter, far more dangerous.

"Get up."

Ryn tilted his head.

"…Why?"

"So I can have you ARRESTED."

His shout shook dust from the lanterns.

"GUARDS!"

At once, heavy boots thundered from both doorways. Four armored enforcers marched in, hands on their swords, eyes cold.

Sera instinctively stepped forward, hand twitching toward her own sword—

But Ryn raised a hand without looking back.

"Sera."

She stopped hesitantly.

The Auction Master sneered, emboldened by his authority.

"You thought you could deceive me with tricks? With parlor magic!?" He spat the words like poison.

"You think I can't see through it? You think I won't tear that mask off your face myself!?"

He stepped forward, voice dropping into a venomous growl.

"I built this House with my hands. I rule this hall. I decide who wins and loses. And you—"

He pointed at Ryn like condemning a criminal.

"—lose."

A hush swept the room.

Dozens of gamblers watched.

All waiting to see how the masked newcomer would respond.

Ryn exhaled softly.

"She really was right…huh?" he muttered under his breath.

Ryn reached into his coat.

And pulled out a black slip sealed with a crimson crest.

The room exploded in whispers.

"Is that—?"

"No… no way…"

"A Blackwood Crest—here!?"

The Auction Master froze.

The fury on his face faltered, cracking into a million pieces in disbelief

Ryn placed the slip gently onto the table.

"I was told to use this if things got messy…"

Then, he tapped it lightly.

"I don't really know who she is, but…a woman named Maria Blackwood gave me this."

The transformation in the room was instantaneous.

The Auction Master staggered back from the Black Slip as if it were a cursed object.

For a moment, he looked like a man who had forgotten how to breathe.

Then he forced the words out, scraping his pride raw:

"…Fine. You win."

"And you will receive… the pass."

He snapped his fingers once, a hollow gesture stripped of confidence.

A nearby attendant rushed forward, carrying a lacquered black envelope—the VIP invitation.

The Auction Master extended it with stiff fingers.

Ryn didn't take it immediately. He glanced toward the dealer.

"My cut."

The dealer blinked, stunned.

"…S-sir?"

"The portion that I borrowed. 5,000 gold."

The dealer stared at the pile of winnings, a glittering hill of gold that easily exceeded ten thousand.

The dealer stammered, "B-but, sir… the total payout is—"

"I said," Ryn repeated calmly,

"my five thousand."

The words hit the room like a meteor.

Someone choked on their drink.

"He's… he's not taking the rest?"

"Is he insane?"

"That's FIVE THOUSAND he's leaving behind!"

Camellia's jaw dropped. The noble brat looked like he'd just witnessed a crime.

Even the Auction Master, mask trembling from the humiliation of defeat, stared in disbelief.

"You… you're refusing the pot?" he croaked.

Ryn didn't dignify it with an answer.

The dealer scrambled, hands shaking, writing on a small piece of paper and stamped it with a seal. She offered it to him like presenting a weapon to a king.

After all, hard currency wasn't kept inside the high-stakes rooms. All payouts were done through stamped vouchers.

"I got what I came for," Ryn said, reaching his hand out to finally take the black envelope.

Then, he walked over to Sera and offered her a hand.

Confused, she grabbed it anyway, thinking it was probably a show for the people.

She was partially correct.

[Aquila]

Before anyone could blink, he was past the guards, standing at the exit of the high-stakes chamber.

The enforcers spun around wildly, batons raised, searching for the man who had moved like smoke.

Sera stumbled after him, still processing what happened.

"It was a pleasure to play with you all, truly. But, I'll be taking my leave first."

He pushed the curtains aside and stepped back out to the main hall.

As soon as he exited the room, Ryn let out an exhale as relief washed over him.

It wasn't dramatic, but it was the kind of breath someone only releases after holding themselves perfectly still for far too long.

Sera watched him quietly.

"You okay?" she asked.

Ryn nodded, but the gesture wasn't convincing.

"Yeah, give me a bit to calm myself."

Sera folded her arms.

"So the calm, untouchable mask… that was all an act?"

Ryn didn't deny it.

He simply shrugged.

"I had to match the room," he said. "No one listens to someone who looks unsure."

Sera's expression softened—with amusement, but also understanding.

"You really had me fooled," she murmured.

Ryn let out a dry breath, half-sigh, half-laugh.

"Would prefer not to do that again."

He straightened, composure returning piece by piece. His breathing evened, and his eyesight refocused.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The hall buzzed behind them, distant and muffled.

The first objective was complete. He had secured the invitation.

Ryn was another step closer to figuring out the Cult's plans and how they were involved in the Hero Ceremony's failure.

But there was still one more thing Ryn needed to accomplish tonight.

One more person he had to find.

He straightened.

"…We're not finished," Ryn said quietly.

Sera blinked, caught off guard.

"What do you mean?"

Ryn's eyes swept across the gambling hall: the waiters, the gamblers, the moving crowd.

"There's someone I need to look for."

Ryn stepped back into the main gambling hall, the noise hitting him like a wall. Sera followed in suit, not knowing what's going on but eager to help.

He scanned the room.

Jay Ferris. Unshakeable confidence in human form.

That was the Jay he remembered.

The only thing he knew from Jay's story was that he was an orphan at the time, working as a waiter. So Ryn started from there.

He searched the floor for uniformed servers weaving through the crowd, trays balanced on their palms like professional dancers.

It shouldn't have been hard.

Ryn tapped a nearby waiter, who turned around immediately.

"Would you like a drink, sir?" the man said confidently.

The personality was right, but he was too old.

Ryn shook his head.

Not him.

Jay, back then, was younger than Ryn by about four years. If Ryn was twenty now, then Jay had to be around sixteen—still growing into himself.

Ryn moved on.

Sera glanced around.

"What exactly are we looking for?"

"A genius," Ryn said automatically.

"A prodigy. Someone with ambition in his eyes. Someone who—"

He stopped.

His thoughts caught up with his words.

The Jay he remembered was years from now.

He wasn't an overbearing genius yet. Right now…he was an orphan, one trying to make ends meet. For a moment, Ryn's mind flashed, like replaying old memories that he hadn't thought about in years.

Jay's voice, quiet but proud:

"…My Blessing? Mixology."

"Didn't know what it did when I first received it. Turned out to change my life forever."

Ryn blinked.

Mixology.

Waiters didn't mix drinks. Bartenders did.

He exhaled quietly, almost amused at himself.

"So I've been looking in the wrong direction," he murmured.

Sera tilted her head.

"What do you mean?"

Ryn started toward the long, curved bar at the center of the hall.

"Would you like a drink, Sera?"

Sera blinked, thrown off by the sudden change of subject.

"A… drink?" she echoed.

But Ryn was already walking, weaving between tables toward the main bar.

Lanternlight flickered across polished bottles and crystal glasses as a dozen bartenders worked in a seamless rhythm, sliding drinks across the counter with practiced ease.

Ryn's eyes didn't leave them.

They moved from one face to the next—too old, too confident, too refined.

Jay wasn't any of those things yet.

And then—

There.

Near the far end of the counter.

A teenager. Too young to belong behind the bar, shoulders hunched slightly as if he was trying not to be noticed. He worked quickly but quietly, posture small, movements efficient but unrefined.

He reached for a bottle, and light slid across his hand.

A thin, diagonal white line on his thumb.

Ryn stopped walking altogether, which caused Sera to bump into him.

"Ryn? What—"

But he wasn't listening.

The scar was unmistakable. The same shallow cut Jay once laughed about years in the future.

The boy didn't even notice him at first, too focused on the drink he was mixing.

But when Ryn stopped just across the counter, the teen finally looked up.

Their eyes met.

Ryn's voice came out quiet. The line came out more of a statement than a question.

"Are you," he asked,

"…Jay Ferris?"

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