Chapter 171: Consecutive Victories
[Ann’s POV]
Gale was right in one respect: the physical mechanism of the game was sound. The claws released the sticks as they were designed. The scam wasn’t in the machine. It was in the people operating it. The witch attendant had hastily scribbled the "three consecutive wins" rule onto that weathered bulletin board after Lady Ovelia had already caught the final two sticks. I’d watched her do it, the chalk squeaking in her nervous hurry. Remembering that blatant, desperate dishonesty made my blood heat, a slow simmer of anger in my veins.
But voicing that accusation now would be pointless, starting a public argument that would only create a scene. Worse, it might dim the proud, happy light in Lady Ovelia’s eyes. She had won her round fair and square against their dirty trick—and the last thing I wanted was to sadden her.
Lady Ovelia and Sir Ace walked back to our little group. The crowd’s excited murmur buzzed around us like excited bees.
"Thank you for holding the bouquet, Ann," Lady Ovelia said, her smile radiant as she reached for the flowers.
I carefully returned the vibrant bundle of flowers to her. "Congratulations," I said, my own happiness for her warming my voice. "You unbelievably caught all five sticks." I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice to a whisper meant only for her. "I will surely win, my lady."
She nodded, her red eyes sparkling with trust, and then gave me a determined little fist-pump—my own gesture, returned to me. The simple faith in that action was a greater boost than any weapon.
I looked at Gale. He was watching me, his gray eyes intense. "I’ll play first," I stated.
He just gave a short, sharp nod, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
I turned and walked to the center of the wide, black circular base. The painted wood was cool and solid under my boots. I faced the stall owner. He was holding his remote, his earlier smugness replaced by a thin, nervous smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t give a signal.
His whole palm came down on the remote in a frantic, panicked slap.
*CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK!*
All five claws released at once. The sticks dropped in a scattered cluster, a chaotic rain of wood.
My body moved without conscious thought. Years of assassin training—catching thrown knives in the dark, disarming opponents in a blur, reacting to threats from every angle—took over. It wasn’t about thought; it was about space, trajectory, and motion. I pivoted, my hands becoming a blur. A stick caught in my right hand, tucked under my arm. A lunge to the left, another snatched from the air. A spin, a duck, an extension—slap, slap, slap. In less than two seconds, I stood straight, all five sticks held neatly in a fan between my fingers.
The crowd, which had been murmuring, fell completely silent for a beat. Then, a collective gasp rippled through them, followed by an explosion of cheers louder than before. Their shock was palpable.
"How... how can you do that?!" the stall owner shouted, his voice cracking. His face was a mask of disbelief, his eyes wide as he stared at the sticks in my hands as if they were impossible artifacts.
"Because I underwent extreme training for years," I said, my voice flat and clear. I held his gaze, letting him see the absolute lack of amusement in my eyes.
"Set that aside. It’s my turn." Gale’s voice cut through the noise, impatient and cold.
I turned to look at him. I had been planning to say something, maybe a taunt about it being harder than it looked, but the expression on his face stopped me. All his usual irritable bluster was gone. In its place was a cold, focused seriousness that was far more intimidating. His gray eyes were like chips of flint. If I said a single word that grated on him now, he would genuinely snap.
I simply stepped out of the circle and walked over to him. I held out the five sticks. "You better win," I whispered, the words a challenge and an acknowledgment.
He took the sticks from me, his fingers brushing mine, and gave a single, curt nod. Then, his gaze shifted past me to Lady Ovelia, who was watching with hopeful, shining eyes. When her eyes met mine, I allowed myself a small, fierce smile of victory.
[Gale’s POV]
I stepped onto the black circle. The brief, serious expression Ann had worn melted away as she reached Ovelia, replaced by a genuine smile as Ovelia whispered what was surely enthusiastic praise. The smile she gave to Ovelia was genuine and warm—and it made something twist oddly in my chest. Loyalty. That’s what it is, I told myself.
I reached up and slotted the five sticks back into the waiting claws with more force than necessary. Each click was a punctuation mark of my rising irritation. Then I turned and glared at the witch inside the stall. Ann, Ace, Ray—we had all seen her scramble to alter the rules. We’d all chosen silence, for Ovelia’s sake. The tactical decision did nothing to cool the contempt boiling in my gut. Greedy, manipulative mortals were a blight I had little patience for at the best of times.
*CLICK.*
A single stick dropped directly in front of me. I didn’t even look at it. My hand snapped out and caught it mid-air, the sound of wood against my palm a sharp crack in the tense quiet.
I kept my glare locked on the stall owner. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, gleaming in the lantern light.
He began tapping the remote rapidly, erratically.
*CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.*
The remaining four sticks dropped in rapid succession, one after the other, from different points around the circle.
My body reacted. It was simpler than wind magic, more fundamental than fairy sight. It was the ingrained reflex of something that has lived a very long time and learned to move. I stepped, twisted, crouched, and stretched. Each motion was economical, devoid of flourish. My free hand snatched the second stick from the air. The third I caught against my chest, pinning it with my forearm. The fourth, I snagged by dipping low, my fingers closing around it just above the platform. The fifth and final stick, I simply lifted my foot and trapped it gently against my boot before bending to retrieve it.
I straightened up. Five sticks. Five catches. Not a single one had touched the ground.
The stall owner’s hand opened. The remote clattered to the wooden floor of his booth. He brought both hands up to cover his mouth, his eyes wide with the horrified realization that his scheme was not just beaten, but utterly dismantled.
The crowd, which had been holding its breath, erupted. The cheers this time were deafening, mixed with disbelieving laughter and shouts of admiration.
Without a word, I placed each stick back into its claw. The final click echoed with finality. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the heavy pouch of coins Ray had given me. I fished out two twenty-spina coins, which gleamed dully in the lantern light. I turned and threw them directly at the stall owner. They spun through the air in twin, sharp arcs.
The owner flinched again, but his hands shot out on instinct, fumbling before managing to clutch the coins against his chest.
I didn’t wait for a response. I turned and strode toward the stall itself, where the witch attendant stood frozen. She hadn’t even bothered with a basic mana-nullifying device to hide her signature from other practitioners. Her aura was a low, steady hum of simple illusion-craft. The fact that she hadn’t tried to use any active magic to interfere during our turns was the one smart decision she’d made tonight.
I stopped directly in front of her. She took a half-step back, her shoulders hunching.
"Give me the limited edition cookbook," I said. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the residual noise of the crowd like a blade through silk.
She flinched as if struck. For a moment, she just stared, then her eyes darted to the stall owner. Swallowing hard, she turned and reached for the shimmering book on the display shelf.
"STOP!" The stall owner’s voice was a raw, desperate shout. He scrambled forward, pointing a shaking finger at me. "YOU... YOU DEFINITELY CHEATED!"
The words hung in the air.
A strange, cold stillness settled over me. The noisy crowd, the lantern light, the scents of food and sweat—it all receded, fading into a dull background hum.
Cheated?
After his pathetic, transparent scams? After using his partner as a living distraction? After changing the grand prize rules mid-game?
It felt like a thread inside me, worn thin by centuries of exile, resentment, and witnessing petty mortal corruption, finally snapped.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across my face, one that didn’t reach my eyes. My gray eyes locked onto his.
"Oh?" I said, the single syllable dropping into the sudden quiet like a stone into a well. "Is that what you think?"