On the other side of Crimson London, Lucas, Daron, and Alyssa stood before the door of the Drali tavern.
Lucas Grimwood spoke in a hushed, reserved tone:
"It's been a long time since we last carried out a full cleansing of a place. Looks like the party is about to begin."
Daron gripped the door handle and slowly pushed it open. The scent of the tavern's atmosphere hit him immediately. Lowering his head slightly, a devilish grin spread across his lips, as if he were preparing to devour his prey.
Alyssa peered inside, carefully examining the patrons. Some were drinking, others were gambling, and in the shadows behind the tavern, a few were being slaughtered. Her gaze settled on the designated tables, where the trio would soon take their places.
Daron smirked wickedly and spoke in a coarse voice:
"I'll be gambling at table number thirty. I love that number."
Lucas placed a hand on Daron's shoulder and said:
"Good luck, you lunatic."
Both men laughed, and as Daron stepped toward his table, he casually flipped his middle finger toward Lucas. Meanwhile, Lucas scanned the tavern, his eyes landing on table forty-three.
"I'll take that one. Lots of old men there—it'll be fun to kill them."
Alyssa glanced around, her eyes locking onto a table near the tavern's back door. A strange smile formed on her lips as she walked toward it.
"That table looks perfect for a kill. And number thirteen… such a perfect number for slaughter."
The essence of this game was simple: blackjack, poker, chess. Win the game, and then eliminate the competitors. A complete massacre of the tavern—young or old, it made no difference.
You can stand at the right number, or you can take a risk and push your luck. The choices are open, but not all roads lead to the same destination.
The hunt was about to begin.
Lucas Grimwood approached table forty-three, where three other gamblers were already seated. In the world of gambling, the more players at the table, the harder it is to win. But for the Servant of the Black, the King of Luck, challenges were meaningless.
The dealer shuffled the deck, distributing twenty-five cards evenly among the four players, giving each participant two cards. The other three bet ten pence each, while Lucas placed a single penny on the table.
The three men laughed at him, mistaking his low bet for fear of losing money. But Lucas? He remained unfazed, his eerie smile unwavering. That grin alone was enough to make them uneasy.
The cards were flipped, and Lucas had the strongest hand—five pairs. The best of his three opponents had only one pair.
Lucas Grimwood had won the round.
Frustration boiled among the gamblers as Lucas swept up the bets with a devious smirk.
Round after round, he kept winning, and eventually, he went all in—betting all his money.
One of his opponents, a burly man, burst out laughing.
"Are you insane, you bastard? Do you really think you're that lucky?"
He stood up, glaring at Lucas, his face inches away.
"You're not just risking your money, fool. You're risking your life."
Lucas, clearly disgusted by the man's breath, pinched his nose and said:
"I'm not the one who's going to die. You three will be losing your lives. Also, your breath stinks. Get away from me, you fat pig."
The man, embarrassed, returned to his seat in silence.
The gambling continued. Everyone at the table went all in. The deck held fifty-one cards.
The three men were visibly nervous about losing their money. But Lucas? He remained calm, twirling a coin in his fingers—one side black, with the word "Mercy", the other red, with the word "Kill".
The coin always landed on red.
Minutes later, the final cards were revealed. Lucas had won.
His hand was an exact match with three out of four players, giving him the ultimate advantage.
Fury erupted from the men. They accused him of cheating. But Lucas simply gave them a wide, menacing grin, placing his sword on the table.
Twenty minutes earlier.
Daron was engaged in a game of blackjack with three opponents. One of them was particularly arrogant, taunting the other players.
Daron, however, was in a world of his own, completely focused on the turn of the cards—like the Earth revolving around the Sun.
The arrogant man flicked a coin toward Daron and scoffed:
"You look scared and nervous in front of someone stronger. Don't worry, it happens all the time, not just in this tavern, but in all of London."
Daron met his gaze, his stare so intense that even the boastful gambler fell silent.
"Gambling is a lot like predicting the weather," Daron said, his voice cold. "You step outside in the morning, and it's sunny. By nightfall, a storm rages. No matter how skilled you are, you can never truly predict the outcome."
The dealer paused, momentarily shaken by Daron's eerie words.
In blackjack, the rule is simple—if you exceed twenty-one, you lose. But did that rule apply to Daron?
The dealer prepared eighteen cards and began distributing them:
• Player One: 3
• Player Two (The Arrogant Man): 10
• Player Three: 5
• Player Four (Daron): 4
The game progressed.
• Player One took a card: 13
• Player Two took a card: 14 (and laughed smugly)
• Player Three took a card: 15
• Daron took a card: 9
Then, they continued:
• Player One took another card: 23 (bust)
• Player Two took another card: 28 (bust, shock on his face)
• Player Three took another card: 30 (bust)
• Daron took another card: 20 (perfect)
Daron laughed—his sinister, bone-chilling laugh.
The arrogant man slammed the table, pointing furiously at Daron.
"He's a cheat! This is impossible! How did we all lose so fast?"
Daron raised both hands, fingers spread.
"I control you like puppets."
He stood, pulling out his gun, aiming it at them—his wicked grin still plastered on his face.
Twenty minutes earlier.
Alyssa faced a man who had been a two-time world champion in chess—an undefeated legend.
But Alyssa? She had played against hell itself, against the genius of the abyss, German.
The champion sat before her, arrogance seeping from his every move. He was confident he would win.
But what did he expect?
The game began. Alyssa studied his predictable playstyle. He had glaring weaknesses—ones she could easily exploit.
She deliberately prolonged the game for fifteen minutes, savoring the challenge. She could have ended it much sooner.
With fluid, calculated movements, she commanded the board like a conductor leading an orchestra. Every piece danced under her control.
Then came the decisive moment.
With a simple pawn move, she set the stage. Then, with a sudden L-shaped knight maneuver, she delivered the final blow.
"Checkmate."
Her opponent froze, eyes wide in disbelief.
How had a world champion lost?
And worse—how had he lost to a woman?
Humiliation burned in hos face
With complete coldness, Alyssa stood up, drew her gun, and pressed it against his head without hesitation, pulling the trigger. There was no mercy in her actions, no moment of doubt. At the same time, Darun did not hesitate to do the same; he slaughtered everyone without remorse, firing without pause. Lucas, who had been silently watching the scene, also joined in, his gunshots blending into a single wave with theirs, leaving all their enemies lifeless on the ground.
As the bodies collapsed, they stood like statues carved from ice—unwavering, unshaken. Alyssa whispered in a chilling voice:
"You can gamble as much as you want, but when you see us—forget about it."
Lucas flipped his coin with a deadly smile and added:
"You can stand at any number, or you can take everything. I took everything, because I have no limits."
Then, silence reigned. The only sound left was the lingering echo of gunfire, the final breath of the dead.
Meanwhile, Celira, Liovuin, and Eleonora arrived at their destination—a bar named "Thirteen."
Liovuin looked at the name and grinned with satisfaction.
Seeing such a perfect name delighted him. He spoke in a low yet decisive voice:
"We must cleanse this place properly. Leave no one alive—Amen."
The trio entered the bar with confident steps, carefully selecting the table from which the massacre would begin.
It was the forbidden table, the Thirteenth Table—the hardest one of all. Competitors here left with only one of two outcomes: money or death.
Celira took the middle seat, while Liovuin sat on the left and Eleonora on the right.
The strange thing about Celira was that she communicated through sign language—not the conventional kind, but something bizarre, understood only by the Mourner of Pure Blood.
A man spoke, his presence radiating authority. Behind him stood several men in matching formal suits.
"Looks like we have something interesting here," he sneered. "You people are nothing but commoners. The best thing you can do is walk away alive and preserve your worthless lives."
Celira formed a triangle with her ten fingers. The meaning of this gesture was clear:
"Switch the plan from chess to betting on someone's death inside the bar in exactly twenty minutes."
The man didn't understand what she meant, so Liovuin clarified for him:
"We are betting that someone will die in this bar in twenty minutes."
The man burst into loud laughter, slamming his hand on the table.
"Fine, fine! A beautiful bet! One that will send you all straight to hell! Hahahahaha!"
But twenty minutes later, the man's amusement faded when someone inside the bar dropped dead.
He was speechless, unsure of what to do. But Priest Liovuin's blade had other plans. With a single slash, he severed three heads at once. The massacre unfolded swiftly, and within moments, the bar was cleansed.
Liovuin sat atop a fallen corpse, his gaze turning to Eleonora. He praised her with a smirk:
"You have a sharp eye for vital points, Lady Eleonora. Quite praiseworthy."
The random victim who had died twenty minutes earlier was none other than Eleonora's target. She had fired a needle straight into his heart, making it appear as if he had suffered a sudden heart attack.
The priest brought his fingers together, closing his eyes, and murmured:
"Thirteen. Amen to them all."
Elsewhere, Jerman and the Red Raven stood before the Red House. Just looking at it was enough to bring misfortune and fear.
Inside, there was a melting voice whispering in the darkness. The Red Raven stared at the house, his hands trembling—not from fear, but from excitement for the hunt, the slaughter.
He grinned and whispered:
"Tonight, we hunt—even the Crimson itself."