Rémy swallowed hard, ignoring the cold sweat soaking his neck. His fingers slid over the first card, but instead of using his credits, his hand moved toward the heavy steel of the revolver. With a quick motion driven more by blind panic than courage, he grabbed the gun, pressed the barrel to his temple, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.
A dry, hollow metallic click rang out above the jukebox melody.
The shot never came.
-------------------------------------
—REWARD MULTIPLIED (x5)—
The operator has danced with the Iron Lady and survived.
The risk multiplier is applied to the active round's loot. All multipliers will be assigned upon game completion.
Credits earned: 100
-------------------------------------
—¿Oh? — Archie exclaimed with feigned surprise, interlacing his fingers on the table. — I must admit, I thought you'd be scared, champ.
—¡It's just a carnival trick! — Rémy shot back, exhaling all the pent-up air in one burst.
He dropped the gun onto the green felt and leaned back comfortably in his chair, trying to project an arrogance he was light-years from actually feeling.
—If you actually wanted me dead, you wouldn't bother with all this drama. You'd just—
¡BLAM!
The deafening roar of a gunshot sliced his words in half, making the porcelain cups vibrate and filling the air with the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder.
The head of the mannequin seated to his right—the one whose turn came next—exploded in a violent cloud of varnished splinters, sawdust, and chunks of wax that rained mercilessly onto the mahogany table. Archie, who had snatched the revolver from the table in a fraction of a second, calmly blew the smoke from the barrel.
Rémy froze, face pale, a thick splinter embedded in his jacket lapel. His confident smile completely crumbled, falling to the floor alongside the remains of the mannequin's hat, which now evaporated from its seat.
—Uh… just… — Rémy stammered, voice trembling as he stared at the splintered, decapitated neck beside him. —You're just trying to scare me.
Cartman, who had thrown himself to the floor at the sound of the blast, peeked over the edge of the table, spitting out a piece of wood that had landed in his hot chocolate.
It wasn't just probably a joke. It had to be.
Rémy remembered perfectly the forums of The Gamer, the Solo Leveling marathons, and those dark fanfics where the protagonist got a "Chaos Seduction" or "Extreme Equivalent Exchange" system. In fiction, even the most sadistic system had an invariable progression logic; there was a narrative safety net, an implicit contract that the protagonist wouldn't die pathetically before the third arc.
At the time, Rémy had consumed hundreds of novels, manhwa, and fanfics with every kind of system. In those stories, the vast majority of interfaces helped their user without complaint, granting broken abilities just for breathing, sleeping, or doing a hundred push-ups. Others, a little stranger and more playful, forced the user to complete bizarre missions like "seduce the demon king's wife and make love to it in front of him." Multiversal chat systems that threw all kinds of individuals and deities together to argue about the cereal they bought last night while trading red envelope packages of divine skills and traveling between random worlds. And those systems that seemed sadistic usually had a hidden purpose to forge the protagonist's character, not to blow his brains out in an abstract Sicilian café because of his creator's gambling addiction.
Therefore, it had to be impossible for him, the operator, to die at the hands of his own system.
¿Right?
The tick-tock of the wall clock began to sound like hammer blows.
Archie held Rémy's gaze, staring so deeply it seemed he was reading the paragraphs of light novels parading through his mind.
—The problem with reading too much fiction, champ, is that you start believing you've got plot armor guaranteed —Archie said, breaking the silence. —But here we're not looking for a hero. We're looking for a profitable investment, and an investment that doesn't take risks is an investment that stagnates.
Rémy stopped breathing.
Archie pointed with a gloved finger at the card Rémy still held on the table. The golden aura emanating from the cardboard began seeping between Rémy's fingers, bringing an absolute cold sensation and a vibration that resonated directly in his bones.
—You're not dead, so I suppose your theory just got a little validation. Now stop shaking and pay attention.
One by one, the mannequins began playing their cards in a frenzied choreography. Some bet with ghostly credits, winning or losing chips that vanished upon touching their wooden fingers. Others, however, sought the same multiplier Rémy had.
Six of those lifeless figures chose the gun. The café filled with the rhythmic sound of triggers: click, click, BLAM!
Four heads exploded in bursts of splinters and sawdust, leaving decapitated bodies that remained seated, holding their decks with horrifying rigidity. Only two survived the Iron Lady's challenge, watching their cards glow with the same golden radiance as Rémy's. The turns passed at a terrifying speed that mocked the rest of the players, completing the table's cycle until the smoking revolver, loaded with a fresh promise of death, returned in front of Rémy.
-------------------------------------
—SYSTEM: TABLE CYCLE COMPLETED—
Operator Status: Mild hypoxia from tension.
You should see a doctor.
Revolver Status: Chambers reset (Bullet probability this round: 2/6).
System Note: ¿The show has been educational, hasn't it? The player mortality rate suggests that "protagonist luck" has a statistical limit.
-------------------------------------
—The table's cleared up a bit —Archie said, glancing at the wood debris littering the floor. —The atmosphere is more intimate now. ¿What do you say, champ? ¿Gonna try to repeat your feat, or has the fate of your wooden neighbors taken away your appetite for big bets?"
Cartman simply watched, unusually still. At no point had he been forced or even encouraged to participate in that insane game, but Rémy's brain —saturated with adrenaline and the smell of gunpowder— lacked the clarity to process that small but crucial detail. He was too busy trying not to fall apart while the echo of the last shot still vibrated in his ears.
Rémy lowered his gaze to the second card. The golden glow from the first reward still burned in his pocket, reminding him that extreme risk brought benefits no other farming method would ever give him. However, seeing the splintered necks of the mannequins was a graphic reminder that the system showed no mercy to those who lost the bet.
—Yeah, I'm not doing that.
¡Forget the gun!
He had plenty of credits. Between the points accumulated from killing the curse, the Misfortune Roulette bonus, and the fivefold reward from the previous round, his personal account looked healthier than ever. Faced with the imminent threat of his brain decorating the walls in a violent crimson explosion, sacrificing part of his digital fortune was the most obvious option. After all, the system store didn't exactly have a tempting catalog at that moment; investing in his own survival was the best purchase he could make.
-------------------------------------
—TRANSACTION IN PROGRESS: SECURITY PAYMENT—
Cost: 150 Credits (Minimum protection fee).
Status: Processing… Accepted!
Faggot
Effect: The revolver has been blocked for this turn. The Iron Lady takes a break.
System Note: Prudence is the mother of science, but the great-aunt of mediocrity. You've saved your head, but you've lost the risk multiplier. Enjoy your standard reward, cautious operator.
-------------------------------------
The veins on Rémy's forehead bulged at the mechanical insults.
Archie let out a dramatic sigh loaded with such feigned disappointment it was insulting. He waved a hand and the revolver slid back, out of Rémy's reach.
—Well, what a disappointment —Archie murmured, resting his cheek on his hand. —And here I thought we'd finally found an operator with a true artistic death wish. But I suppose pragmatism has its charm too… a boring, safe charm, but charm nonetheless.
Rémy ignored the comments and focused on the second card. Without the golden aura of extreme risk, the card emitted a steady, sober silver glow. When he flipped it, the image revealed a series of integrated circuits intertwined with dark muscle fibers.
-------------------------------------
—REWARD OBTAINED—
The operator has danced with his wallet. All multipliers will be assigned upon game completion.
Credits earned: 100
-------------------------------------
Third round.
In professional poker, there's the concept of blinds. As the game progresses, the minimum cost to simply sit at the table increases to force action. Archie decided to apply this rule with mathematical cruelty.
To receive his third card and avoid the revolver, Rémy not only had to pay the initial 150 credits. Archie introduced a forced bet to "see" the flop (the community cards). Rémy, confident in his reserve of credits earned from the curse and previous rounds, accepted the raise. However, Archie began aggressively raising the bet.
Every time Rémy tried to secure his position, Archie re-raised. To avoid being knocked out and losing what he'd already invested, Rémy was forced to call again and again. By the end of the third round, after a mediocre hand that Archie won with a simple pair of aces, Rémy watched his capital shrink to less than half.
Fourth round.
In the fourth round, ambition and desperation mixed. Rémy drew a pair of kings when the cards were revealed on the table, an almost unbeatable hand. A gift that cleared the thick clouds of death from Rémy's heart.
—All or nothing, champ —Archie provoked, sliding a mountain of clay chips to the center. —I had fun today. Even if you don't win this hand, I'll be lenient and this will be the only game tonight. You'll get the characters, items, and upgrades at the end of the session. But if you want to see my last card without the revolver participating… you'll have to go all-in.
Rémy looked at his cards. The odds of losing with a set of kings against Archie were less than 2%. It was a safe bet; surely the system's logic was finally rewarding his patience. Or so he believed. Rémy pushed all his credits to the center, emptying his account down to the last decimal to buy the right to win without risk of death and obtain a massive reward.
Archie smiled with infinite sadness and flipped his last card: a five of diamonds that completed a straight flush.
—Oh… look at that — Rémy whispered.
In poker, a "bad beat" occurs when a player has a statistically winning hand but ends up losing to an even more improbable combination. It's the most devastating moment for any gambler.
The table emitted a dull beep. The virtual screen in front of Rémy flashed frantic red as the numbers in his account plummeted until they reached absolute zero.
—You're an idiot —Cartman sentenced.
Rémy stared at the credit counter: 0.00.
He hadn't just lost his fortune—he'd also lost his shield. The wall of transactions protecting him from chance had collapsed, leaving him naked before the table in a single move.
—Well… that was unfortunate —Archie murmured, gathering the chips with an elegant sweep of his gloved hands.
Archie slid the revolver back to the center of the table. This time the weapon seemed to weigh tons, and there were no credits left to bribe fate.
—We're in the fifth round, champ —Archie said, and this time there was no mockery in his voice. —And as you well know, no one sits at my table for free. Since you have no funds to buy your safety, the Iron Lady demands her share of the deal.
Archie nodded toward the fifth card in the deck—the last reward Rémy needed to complete his set. It was there, within reach.
-------------------------------------
—SYSTEM: TABLE CYCLE COMPLETED—
Operator Status: On the verge of collapse (Heart rate at critical levels).
Revolver Status: Chambers reset (Bullet probability this round: 5/6).
System Note: The lady of fortune only smiles at madmen.
-------------------------------------
Five out of six. The math was a death sentence. If he pulled the trigger, he had an 83.3% chance his story would end right there, amid the smell of coffee and the sawdust of decapitated mannequins.
Rémy glanced sideways at Cartman. The boy, stripped of his usual insults and arrogance, looked strangely small in that leather chair. In his gaze was a spark difficult to identify—a mix of genuine horror and morbid curiosity.
—I'd like to say it was a pleasure —Rémy spoke softly, completely uninhibited from his emotions. —But that would be the biggest lie that ever came out of my mouth…
Rémy took the revolver. The cold metal ran up his arm like an electric shock. There was no master plan, no hidden skill to save him; only the inertia of a player cornered by the rules he himself chose to play.
Archie leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table.
The barrel remained pressed against Rémy's temple, held by fragile fingers trembling uncontrollably. The roar of blood in his ears drowned out the jukebox music completely. In that moment of hyper-awareness before collapse, Rémy's mind fled the impending crimson explosion toward a ridiculously mundane memory.
Now that he thought about it, there had been an occasion when his father took him to a spring festival in his fifth or sixth year in this world. It was a blurry memory, tinged with the smell of burnt sugar and the deafening noise of mechanical rides. There was a shooting gallery stall, faded colored balloons, and air-compressed shotguns with deliberately crooked sights. His father had placed one of those fake guns in his hands—heavy for a child—and told him luck was just an excuse used by those who didn't know how to aim.
At that festival, Rémy had spent all his afternoon tickets trying to win a cheap consolation prize, missing shot after shot because the fair was designed to empty his pockets. The golden rule of rigged entertainment. Just like this abstract café. Just like the system.
Cartman, who had slid to the edge of his chair, let out a high-pitched groan of pure desperation and pressed his hands to the sides of his helmet.
—¡To hell with it, give me that! — he shrieked, losing the few reins he had left.
Cartman snatched the gun in one sharp yank. There was no physical time for Rémy or Archie to react before the boy spun the barrel toward himself and his chubby finger pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The roar shattered the morbid tranquility of the place. Chunks of flesh flew everywhere, splattering the pristine green felt of the table, Rémy's pale face, and the silk lapel of Archie's suit. It was a wet sound, radically different from the crack of wooden mannequins.
The chubby body of the summon slumped backward, taking the mahogany chair with it and landing with a dull thud against the café's checkered floor.
Archie blinked slowly. The abstractly lethal dealer pulled a white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and calmly wiped a crimson drop from his cheek.
Rémy stood frozen, hand still extended in the air, breath cut short. The smell of gunpowder mixed with a metallic stench that turned his stomach. Cartman, out of impatience, panic, or a twisted sense of sacrifice, had just eaten the 83.3% lethal probability.
The fifth and final card in the deck remained there, untouched in the center of the bloodstained table, waiting to be flipped.
-------------------------------------
—SYSTEM: GAME TERMINATED—
Operator Status: Confused.
Rewards: Assimilated and ready for deployment.
System Note: Congratulations on surviving the meat festival. You've proven that if you run out of credits, you can always throw a friend into the gears to keep the machine turning.
-------------------------------------
—Well —Archie sighed, breaking the heavy silence as he folded the bloodstained handkerchief and made it disappear between his hands. —I must admit I didn't expect such a level of devotion from someone with that kind of education. Your summon just stole your tragic ending, champ. I'm impressed, so I'll allow that little extra help.
—¡You killed Cartman! —Rémy shouted, lifting the small corpse that was disappearing in fragments of light. —¡You bastard!
Incredulity clouded his vision. He—of all the people who ever existed, exist, or will exist—had been saved by him. The same Eric Cartman who once tried to murder his mom when she got more authoritarian; the same selfish, manipulative, sociopathic being capable of turning his enemy's parents into chili over a ten-dollar dispute, had just stepped between Rémy and certain death after only a few days of knowing each other, days when they were constantly fighting.
¿Why?
—Hey — he shouted at Archie. —¿What happened to his defense? ¿How can a simple gun kill him when two Grade 4 curses couldn't?
—Here there are no advantages or disadvantages for anyone. No superiors or inferiors. — Archie explained as the last card slid across the sawdust- and blood-stained felt. —Only people who accept sitting at my table. Upgrades, your shields, any supernatural power you dragged here… all of that is outside noise. The only physics that matters is the house's. —He paused to let his words settle in Rémy's brain, which was still processing the image of Cartman's flesh scattering like static. —Outside, your summon can withstand a train impact or curse attacks because the system calculates his defense based on his attributes. But in here, the casino nullifies any variable that isn't pure chance. It's a space of absolute neutrality. If the revolver decides someone dies, they die. Doesn't matter if it's a brat with a bad attitude, a god, or an operator with delusions of grandeur. Here, a bullet is a bullet, and flesh is flesh.
Archie pointed languidly at the void where Cartman had been.
—He didn't die from lack of defense. He died because the moment he pulled the trigger, he renounced the outside world's protection to accept the logic of the bet. And the bet said the chamber was loaded.
Rémy lowered his gaze to his hands. He felt strangely light, unprotected, like an armor he didn't even know he was wearing had been stripped away.
That meant no matter how many Chinese curses, legendary items, or gods he had under his command, everything would become useless the moment he entered this place. The invulnerability he thought he was building with every upgrade and every level Eric gained was, ultimately, an illusion Archie could switch off with a snap of his fingers.
—The toll is paid and the game is over. Now flip your reward before I decide to charge you cleaning fees. —Archie said, flicking eight cards with a fluid wrist motion. The cardboard rectangles flew across the blood- and sawdust-stained felt, landing in a perfect row in front of Rémy. Though the symbols were clear, a visual noise like old TV static covered the upper-right corner of each one, hiding the rarity grade that would normally define their value.
—Two guaranteed upgrades, and the rest you'll have to discover on your own. You know, different game, different rules, different rewards.
Rémy clutched the eight cards to his chest. The emptiness in his credit account and the absence of Cartman's irritating presence beside him, to which he was already starting to get used, created a hole in his chest.
—¿Will I be able to summon him again? —Rémy asked, looking at the spot where the boy had exploded.
—Of course. He'll recover his upgrades when you return —Archie replied, walking toward the exit door that was now a white light fissure in the wooden wall. —But remember this, champ. The next time you feel invincible because your numbers are high, remember the taste of gunpowder in this café. There may come a day when there's no one stupid or desperate enough to pull the trigger for you.
The scene began to crumble. The smell of coffee transformed into the stale air of reality, and the tango sound was replaced by the constant hum of the user interface.
-------------------------------------
Eric woke slowly, blinking against the school's streetlamp light. There was no triumphant entrance or heavenly beam; he simply materialized sitting on the ground, with the same annoyed expression he'd left with.
He touched his head with both hands, feeling his skull and then the temple area where the revolver barrel had made contact. His fingers moved clumsily, searching for a trace of blood that was no longer there. The system had done an impeccable job reconstructing every polygon of his body, but the memory of the roar seemed to keep bouncing inside his skull.
—¡Ow, shiet! —he suddenly bellowed, jumping to his feet. —¡That hurt!
Rémy didn't answer immediately. He kept an awkward gaze while fidgeting with his fingers. He turned his face aside, hiding a sudden and unusual blush tinting his cheeks. He crossed his arms defensively to try to regain his typical distant posture, though the slight tremor in his voice completely ruined the facade.
—¿Why? —he finally asked, in a thread of voice that barely broke the silence.
Eric stopped rubbing his temples and looked at him with narrowed eyes, recovering his characteristic smug expression.
—Don't get the wrong idea, I only did it because I don't want to disappear into absolute nothingness —the boy replied brusquely. —Besides, if you die, I won't be able to eat burgers anymore.
Rémy frowned but couldn't hold his gaze. He lowered his eyes to the ground and kicked the air shyly, letting his words flow in a soft, barely audible murmur.
—I guess that's fair —he said, extending a hand to help him up.
After the brief contact, Rémy cleared his throat to regain his usual tone, trying to dispel the emotional tension of the moment. He turned his attention to the eight cards in his hand.
—So… ¿wanna give it a try? —he asked Eric, shaking the cards over his head.
—I'm not touching anything that comes from that lunatic again —Cartman growled, stepping back and raising his hands as if the cards might explode. —I already saw what his little games are capable of.
The image of Rémy losing his manhood returned forcefully in Eric's memory. That physical and psychological humiliation under Archie's rules remained fresh, reminding him that in that place consequences were as real as the pain he still felt in his temple.
Rémy sighed. He looked at the backs of the cards, where the icons still pulsed softly, waiting to be used.
Eight things in total, huh…
—It's the same as playing Russian roulette —he brought his fingers to his chin —but if I let those bullets pile up, they'll turn into a thermonuclear bomb.
His inner desires betrayed him when a faint trail of saliva moistened the corner of his lips. Rémy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to salvage the shreds of his composure.
With trembling fingers, he separated three cards from the rest of the loot. The backs weren't simple static images but windows into a perpetually moving abyss. The illustrations twisted beneath a digital haze, a veil of pixels and shadows whispering promises of glory, seducing Rémy's will with the siren song of newly acquired power.
Eric stepped back several paces, feeling a chill run down his spine. He recognized that look; it was the look of a madman about to sell his future just for the momentary pleasure of a game. He'd seen it in the alleys of South Park, in the eyes of slot-machine addicts, and, in his darkest moments, in the mirror when a plan was about to derail.
—¡Come on, give me Optimus Prime!
Rémy closed his eyes, expecting the roar of metal, the growl of an otherworldly engine, and the shadow of a colossal leader who would finally make him feel safe after the casino horror.
-------------------------------------
—Nah ah—
Warning: Random summon deployment is blocked.
Cards will be unlocked only after equipment upgrades are assigned and assimilated.
-------------------------------------
Rémy froze, hands raised and heart pounding in his throat.
—i fucking hate you… — he muttered, slowly lowering his arms. The disappointment hit him with the force of a truck that didn't transform—rather, one of those that haul scrap.
¡"You can assign upgrades whenever you want"—pure lies!
Archie had never mentioned that the rest of the rewards were locked until he assigned the upgrades. Rémy was on the verge of convulsions.
With no other choice, he grabbed both upgrade cards and raised them to the sky.
The instant his fingers gripped the edges of the digital cardboard, the air around them ionized. The constant hum of the interface transformed into a dull roar that made the school walls vibrate. From the epicenter of his hands, a column of cyan and violet light shot toward the clouds, tearing through the alley's gloom and casting impossible shadows against the brick walls.
A column of synthetic violet light pierced the storm's center, creating a visual spectacle as beautiful as it was terrifying that could be seen from any corner of the valley.
-------------------------------------
POKER — ROLL COMPLETED
RESULT: UPGRADE / PASSIVE
RANK: F-
STATUS: LOCKED UNTIL MANIFESTATION
-------------------------------------
A torrent of blood shot from Rémy's mouth, launching him into the air. He spun on himself with the grace of a boiled noodle until he slammed with a dull, wet, shameful thud against the school's brick wall.
He slid slowly down the pavement, leaving a pathetic scarlet trail on the wall that resembled the painting of a sad clown.
Lying face-down amid the gravel and alley dampness, limbs bent at angles that defied human dignity, Rémy blinked into nothingness.
¿Rank F-? ¿Wasn't Rank E the lowest?
—It's impossible…— he managed to articulate, voice broken by incredulity bordering on madness.
Before he could peel himself, the second upgrade card began vibrating with an electronic screech reminiscent of an ancient modem dying.
-------------------------------------
POKER — ROLL COMPLETED
RESULT: UPGRADE / PASSIVE
RANK: F-
STATUS: LOCKED UNTIL MANIFESTATION
-------------------------------------
Rémy's soul detached from his body. A translucent, ectoplasmic silhouette—with the exact same expression of absolute defeat and limp, dangling arms—floated out from his chest and hovered a few centimeters above the social corpse he had become.
----------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------
--------------
----
-
The deeper I delve into the abyss of gambling, the more terrifying it becomes that it might one day look back at me.
¡Thank you so much for the Power Stones!
You really warm this humble Muffin's heart