Trading for the Throne

"1." That was the number on the dice.

The room fell silent, heavy with anticipation. All eyes turned to Ned, their gazes brimming with barely concealed schadenfreude.

A roll of one—failure in its purest form. Surely, even Ned couldn't brush this off.

But instead of the grimace they expected, they were met with something else entirely.

Laughter. Deep, booming, unrestrained laughter that shook his entire frame.

"Hahahahahaha!" Ned roared, his voice reverberating like thunder.

The sheer absurdity of the moment paralyzed the room. What kind of man laughed in the face of absolute failure?

A madman.

Of course, Ned was not entirely mad. To others, the number on the dice carried immense weight—a symbol of success or failure. But to Ned? It was irrelevant.

What mattered wasn't the dice, nor the cards. While they were tools—important ones, no doubt—they weren't the key to victory. The true game lay elsewhere, in a battlefield most overlooked: the mind of the players.

"I will raise more five chips in this round" said the man with cold eyes as he put on the table chips.

"I'll cover" exclaimed Old Gold, his voice steady but his hands betraying a slight tremor as he pushed the chips forward.

"I fold." muttered the thin man, his confidence evaporating

"I fold." echoed the merchant, though he seemed reluctant

"I'll cover."

The room froze.

It wasn't just the words—it was the way he said them. Calm, assured, as if the dice roll had been meaningless.

Old Gold's grin faltered, his eyes narrowing as he studied Ned. He's bluffing... He has to be. No one bets on a '1.'

The merchant and the thin man shook their heads in disbelief, their gazes flicking between Ned and the ships. Madness. This has to be a bluff.

The only person who didn't change his expression was the man with cold eyes. He remained as a mere spectator

Ned leaned back, his expression unreadable, his finger idly drumming against the table. He could see it—they were starting to think it was a bluff. In a few rounds, they'd be stuck in a loop, questioning their own logic.

To them, the game was about numbers and luck. To Ned, it was about control. Every glance, every hesitation, every chip placed on the table—it was all part of the real game.

The dice didn't matter.

Only the players did.

Of course, Ned was not a genius who noticed this in his first games. However, after losing too much money, he started to realize that the only think he could manipulate in this game was the mind of the other players.

So he devised a strategy to increase his chances of winning.

"Now, place your chosen card for this round" the dealer announced.

Old gold, the man with cold eyes, and Ned placed their cards face down on the table.

"Revel them!"

Old gold was the first to turn his card, a '7" written on it. His face was full of confidence.

The man with cold eyes followed, revealing another '7.'

Old Gold's confidence faltered, the light in his eyes dimming. Is he crazy? he thought, despair creeping in. My plan to win big in the first round and coast afterward is ruined.

Now it was Ned's turn. All eyes were on him, expecting to see a '1' or a '2.'

But Ned flipped his card.

'7.' 

Silence.

A total, deafening silence.

Everyone's expression shifted, their disbelief palpable. Even the man with cold eyes broke his stoic facade for a fraction of a second, his brows twitching ever so slightly.

Among the spectators, David and Lucas exchanged incredulous glances. No one had expected this.

Who plays a '7' after rolling a '1'?

Ned does.

"Okay, the winner of this round is this gentleman here!" announced the dealer, pointing to the man with cold eyes. A small nod was his only reaction, his face remaining an unyielding mask.

"Now, let's begin the second round! Gentlemen, place the five fixed chips on the table and roll the dice."

Old gold went first, tossing his dice with an exaggerated flair. They landed on a '3.' His grin faltered slightly, but he quickly covered it with his usual bravado, tapping his fingers on the table as if to say it didn't matter.

The thin man followed. His roll resulted in a '4.' He exhaled softly, his tension easing just enough for him to regain some composure.

The man with cold eyes was next. He rolled with mechanical precision, the dice stopping at a '4.' He didn't react, his attention seemingly elsewhere, as if the outcome had already been decided in his mind.

The merchant rolled a '5.' He puffed up, adjusting his vest with newfound confidence. His smile was small but unmistakable—a man who believed the dice had favored him.

Finally it was Ned's turn. He grabbed the dice with a flourish, tossing them without hesitation. 

The dice clattered against the table.

'2.'

Silence.

All eyes turned to Ned, scrutinizing him for any sign of weakness.

But instead, he laughed again. Loud, carefree, and utterly disarming. "Wow, today really isn't my day, huh? Hahahaha!"

The laughter broke the tension like a hammer on glass, leaving the others stunned.

Old Gold scoffed, shaking his head. "The boy's lost it."

The thin man adjusted his sleeve, muttering under his breath. "Focus on the others. He's already out of the game."

The merchant chuckled, his earlier doubts melting away. "Can't believe I worried about that fool."

Only the man with cold eyes remained silent, his gaze fixed on Ned. His face betrayed nothing, but his hand tapped the edge of his chair—one, twice, as if in thought.

For a fleeting moment, Ned's eyes met his. A silent exchange passed between them—a challenge, an understanding, or perhaps both.

Ned looked away first, as if dismissing him. But the man's fingers stilled, resting on the table, his gaze sharpening ever so slightly.

The dealer cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "Shall we continue, gentlemen?"

The game moved on, but the tension lingered. And for the first time that evening, Ned wondered if someone at the table truly understood his game.

"I will raise five chips" exclaimed the merchant. His face screaming 'challenge me, if you dare!'

The man with cold eyes matched the bet without hesitation. "I cover."

The tin man followed. "I cover."

Old Gold sighed deeply. "I fold." His face was etched with disappointment. Damn it, today really isn't my day.

"I fould" with a expression full of sadness exclaimed the Old Gold. Shit today it's really not my day.

Finally, Ned spoke. "I cover."

But this time, no one reacted.

No sneers, no suspicion.

Only the man with cold eyes continued watching him, his gaze sharp, as though trying to pierce through Ned's nonchalant facade.

Ned smiled faintly, tilting his head as if to say, What are you looking for?

Today isn't my day. Of all places, why did I have to meet someone like him in this town?

The cards were revealed—first the merchant: '6.' Then the man with cold eyes: '7.'

And then Ned: '6.'

A collective sigh filled the room, the disbelief so tangible it was almost suffocating.

Is this kid out of his mind? Did someone hit him on the head with a rock?

The thin man, his head hanging low with a mix of despair and resignation, revealed his card: '6.'

"Gentlemen, those in the tie—roll the dice," the dealer announced.

The merchant was the first to roll. His hands trembled, betraying his earlier facade of nonchalance. I need a good score. I want to spend this money at the brothel tonight.

The dice clattered across the table and landed on a '5.'

Seeing the number, his previously knotted stomach finally eased. He let out a breath and shot a smug glance at the man with cold eyes. Nothing better than easy money.

The man with cold eyes picked up the dice and rolled with mechanical precision. His face was an unyielding mask, free of nervousness or doubt.

'6.'

Shock.

Complete and utter shock.

The air in the room turned heavy, every pair of eyes locked onto the dice as if unable to believe what they saw. How can someone be this lucky?

But no one was more surprised than the merchant. His face showed reluctant acceptance of his loss, but for the briefest moment, a flash of murderous intent passed through his eyes—a glimmer so sharp it could have cut steel.

It vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by forced laughter and a dramatic shrug. "Well, luck truly favors the bold tonight, doesn't it?"

Only two people noticed it: David, who was lazily enjoying the show of others losing money, and the man with cold eyes.

David shrugged it off with a smirk, unbothered.

The man with cold eyes, however, sharpened his focus. His attention shifted subtly to the merchant, his stoic demeanor now carrying an undercurrent of cautious vigilance.