NOVEL WEB Chapter 257: High Stakes
Markham caught Ethan's expression and grinned even wider.
"Ethan, my man, this price is golden—guaranteed top fifty, maybe even top ten."
"Deal." Ethan gritted his teeth. "Two million it is. Just get me into the top fifty."
Markham choked. "T-two million? Uh—cough—yeah! On my honor as a Whitmore man, consider it done!"
His eyes nearly bulged out of his skull as he yanked back his outstretched fingers—originally meant to signal two hundred thousand—and thumped his chest like a drum.
Ethan blinked. Wait…
His thoughts spun. Two million. That wasn't pocket change, not even by Renegade standards. Had he really let desperation override basic common sense?
The number echoed in his head like a bad reverb. But then again, what was money compared to what he was chasing? Lyla's face shimmered in his memory. If this gamble brought him even one step closer to her, it would be worth every credit.
Too late now. Two million was nothing if it meant seeing Lyla again. Hell, he'd drain the Renegade Alliance and Trusty007's entire inventory for that.
…
True to his word, Markham sprang into action like a man with a vendetta against silence and bureaucracy. He didn't ask for signatures or confirmations—he moved with the swagger of someone who'd been gaming systems long before rules were a thing. With long, striding steps, he carved a path through the outer rim of the strategy section, his coat flaring behind him like a cape.
Then, with a dramatic flourish, he produced a full-sized betting table from seemingly nowhere—one sharp twist of the wrist and it slammed into place with an echoing thud that silenced a dozen nearby conversations.
Ethan stiffened. Spatial storage? That's a thing outside the game?
The supernatural world never stopped throwing curveballs.
The sudden appearance of the table drew murmurs from all around. Curious onlookers drifted closer, clustering like moths to flame.
"Step right up, folks! Don't miss your chance!" Markham's voice boomed like thunder, cutting through the rising din of the crowd.
He vaulted onto the table with startling agility, landing with the poise of a born performer. Arms wide, he spun once for dramatic effect.
"Fair odds, instant payouts! Turn your bicycle into a damn motorcycle! Put your money where your faith is and let destiny deal the cards!"
The crowd erupted. Some gawked in stunned silence. Others shoved forward, eyes gleaming. A few clueless participants—Ethan's spiritual siblings in zero artistic flair—smacked their foreheads.
"Why didn't I think of that?!"
Still, questions hung in the air. Was this even allowed? Most opted to watch first, bet later.
Within minutes, Markham's table had stolen the spotlight, drawing more spectators than the actual matches.
Standing center stage, Markham pointed dramatically at the nearest strategy table, where two players had just taken their seats.
Both radiated the quiet intensity of masters. They closed their eyes, centering themselves in silent focus before the match.
One of them was Bobby. The same guy who'd killed a man over a game earlier.
Who names themselves "Bobby" when you're a strategy master? Ethan thought. That's like a swordsman naming himself "Blunt."
Markham jabbed a finger toward the duo. "First bet's on this match! Everyone knows Bobby—no intro needed! As for his opponent…" He squinted. "Uh… no clue!"
The crowd groaned.
Markham powered on, undeterred. "Who cares? Anyone bold enough to face a Grandmaster of Strategy must be someone. Place your bets now—time's ticking!"
Money flowed in. Most bets piled onto Bobby, but a few gamblers threw chips at the unknown challenger.
The crowd teemed with hopefuls clutching their single tournament cards—win here, and they'd strike gold. Lose, and they were out.
At first, the odds were simple: 1:1.
But as more money stacked on Bobby, the ratio swung—0.1:10.
Markham, to his credit, handled it like a pro. One glance at the pool, and he recalculated the odds without missing a beat.
Then came the skeptics.
"If Bobby wins, how the hell are you splitting the cards? Cutting them into pieces?" someone shouted.
"Yeah, this smells like a scam!"
Murmurs of suspicion rippled outward.
Markham's answer? He slammed a duffel bag onto the table and dumped out a mountain of cash—enough to make Ethan blink.
Who the hell carries this much physical money anymore?
"One card equals three grand," Markham called out. "Any partial payouts, I'll cover in cash. Got extra cards? I'll buy 'em!"
The crowd hesitated. Three grand per card was fair. The tension loosened slightly. More bets began trickling toward the mystery player.
Then—the match began.
With calm precision, both players opened their eyes. The tension between them was electric—two minds switching into high gear. Without a word, they reached for their stones.
The sound was soft, almost reverent, as Bobby placed his first move. A moment later, the mystery player followed—equally calm, equally focused. The match had begun, but to those watching, it felt more like the start of a ritual.
Markham slammed a giant metal lid over the betting pool. "No more bets! Let's see some magic!"
At first, Bobby dominated.
His moves were surgical—each stone cut off another possibility, carving out the board like a predator hemming in its prey. The crowd buzzed. Bobby's backers beamed. The underdog bettors started sweating.
Markham looked tense, but Ethan caught a flash of something in his eyes.
This guy's up to something.
If Bobby won, Markham would owe a fortune. If the underdog pulled it off, the insane 10:0.1 odds meant the house would barely scrape by.
Then it happened—the mystery player snapped into focus.
His hands became a blur, stone after stone clicking into place like a machine gun. The board shifted. The tide turned.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Bobby's smirk disappeared. He leaned in, eyes locked, as his opponent dismantled the lead stone by stone.
Move. Countermove. A death spiral of strategy.
And finally—
Click.
The mystery player placed the last piece.
Bobby stood, his chair screeching back. He stared at the board, jaw tight… then extended a hand.
A draw.
The crowd exploded.
"Draw! House wins!" Markham bellowed, dancing on the table like a man possessed. "All bets voided! Thank you for playing, you beautiful suckers!"