1 in 1.8 Million

Subject: N/A | Classif.: N/A

North of Pitstop, an extravagant building towered over the shacks around it, lights flashing in a dizzying, hypnotic dance. Gangsters and the poor alike flooded the entrance as the bouncers fought to keep even more from coming in. Many entered Jack’s Jackpot, hoping the casino would turn their lives around. Not many would leave the same way they came in.

If they were lucky, they would go home without a finger or two. If they left in one piece, it was usually in a body bag.

But that day, the roulette tables and the slot machines were mostly vacant even as the building suffocated under a sea of people. Gang leaders and the rich sat on their elevated seats in a private theater while the usual hopefuls stood in the main hall, a large screen overhead taking up its entire breadth. All eyes were glued on the big event.

Mortal Vs. Immortal: Mahjong Match of the Millennium

After a long hiatus, Lucky Tim made a sudden, unannounced return to Jack’s Jackpot, drawing gangsters and gamblers alike to witness the legend in action. Locals were well aware of the town drunkard’s inability to die. However, much of his reputation as a gambler remained mired in mystery, a fact that the owner, “Car” Jack MacQuoid, was able to exploit, turning what was otherwise another typical afternoon in the casino into its biggest day in over a decade.

Drawn in by the hype, a young man squeezed into a corner of the main hall, the last person to make it in before the bouncers barred the entrance. He joined his father who waited for him there, an elderly man coughing from the cigarette-filled air.

“You’re late,” the father said. “So, who’d you end up betting for?”

“Lucky Tim, of course!”

“Stubborn fool. You should’ve gone with Jack.” His eyes focused on the old man on the TV screen dressed in a vibrant aloha shirt. “Tim is a fraud.”

“What?”

“Most everyone here wasn’t born yet, but back in the day, we’d come here just to see Tim lose! The drunk’s so broke, he’s had his fingers cut off and liver and kidneys taken more times than I count. Never saw him win. Not even once. ‘When in doubt, always bet against Tim.’ That’s what your mom used to say.”

“No way…”

“That Jack fooled all of you young’uns. Literally anyone EXCEPT that drunk would be the right choice.”

“I don’t even know the other two,” replied the son.

“Better burn this into your memory, because you’d wish you never saw them anywhere else. The big guy on the right is none other than Ansel O’Keefe.”

“Wait, that’s the O’Keefe boss?!” The son’s eyes widened. “No wonder Jack himself is playing. How about the military lady? She some bigshot as well?”

“General Reggiana Walker, Lion of the Greer.”

“What’s a general from The Mids doing down here?”

“The lady’s a mercenary now. And I don’t think she came here just to play mahjong.”

-----

On the stage of the private theater, the automatic mahjong table sorted out the ivory tiles, its mechanisms inside preparing for yet another round as the VIP guests watched in anticipation. Cameras broadcast the match from various angles, giving the audience in the main hall a taste of the action as well. But what the live feed failed to communicate was the palpable tension in the room.

Except Tim, each of the players brought with them two bodyguards just out of view from the cameras. Muscle and military. The presence emanating from the entourage alone was enough to make some of the VIPs sweat, the clouds of cigarette smoke dispersing out of respect.

“You’re surprisingly calm for someone in last place, Mortimer,” commented the general.

“I’ve been told stress isn’t good for my blood pressure.”

Ansel O’Keefe chimed in, “You should tell that to all the people who wagered on you. Jack here’s gonna be collecting a helluva more body parts once this is over.”

“I collect cars, Mr. O’Keefe. My… clients… in The Mids collect those body parts.”

Without audio, the crowd in the main hall could only guess what the players were bantering about. But the topic of conversation became the least of their worries when they saw the players drawing their initial hands from the wall formed by the automatic mahjong table. The collective groan from the main hall was enough to be heard outside the casino.

Tim’s starting hand was yet another complete mess.

But at the table, the players weren’t just reading their hands, but also each other. Facial expressions. Microgestures. Heartbeats. The battle wasn’t just unfolding on the felt green surface of the table, but also within their minds. From a finger tapping on the elevated edge to a drop of sweat being wiped away, not a single movement was missed.

The general was like a gargoyle. Stone cold. Utterly unreadable. Jack wore a charming smile while Ansel played with his tousled hair, rubbing it between his fingers as his mind raced. Tim merely yawned, even burping a few seconds later.

“I’m curious,” Jack said, discarding the first tile as the dealer for that round. “Why come back after all these years, Tim? Surely, it’s not just because of a car?”

“I really just need a car.”

“Heading somewhere?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“If you need transport, my men can arrange it for you,” offered the general.

“Thanks, but sounds like too much trouble.”

She wondered aloud, a slight curve appearing on her upper lip. “Is that because of your new Immortal friend?”

Tim paused, the Red Dragon tile he was about to discard suspended between his fingertips. His eyes met General Walker’s. The air thickened between them. Palpable. Tangible. His nonchalance vanished, seemingly becoming a mirror of the grizzled war veteran next to him.

After a brief but painful silence, Tim lowered the Red Dragon onto the table. Turning to Ansel, he said, “You can have this.”

The mob boss’s expression lit up, golden teeth radiating pleasant surprise. A face only a fist could love. “Don’t mind if I do!”

A stunned gasp left the lips of all watching. With the O’Keefe patriarch taking the tile, he now had three melds of the Red, Pearl, and Jade Dragons respectively. His potential score with this hand has hit the absolute limit.

Big Three Dragons.

But for those who bet on Tim, it was bigger trouble. As he was the one who gave the last tile needed for that hand, it didn’t matter if Ansel won by self-draw or if another player threw the winning tile; Tim had to make a Responsibility Payment, paying off all, if not most of it. And with him being in last place, it would bankrupt him instantly, ending the entire game altogether.

“I see you like to live on the edge,” Jack commented, clearly folding as he started throwing tiles identical to Ansel’s discards.

“Nah, I’m in a hurry, so I need to end this.”

When it looped back to Tim’s turn, he threw Ansel’s winning tile without hesitation. Some of the crowd watching in the main hall fainted from pure shock. Even the general’s ironclad facade started to crack, the shock of throwing the game so blatantly catching even her off guard.

Because Tim wasn’t the only one abandoning common sense. Ansel opted not to draw the winning tile.

“Why the rush? Let’s keep the fun coming, ay!?”

The mob boss’s boisterous reaction drew a mixed response from the audience. Those in the main hall started praying while the VIPs ground their teeth. Faith and damnation filled the air in two separate spaces. Nails bitten. Breath trembled. Souls on the edge of the skin. And as the remaining tiles grew ever fewer, the collective stress of every casino goer grew ever higher.

“I see now,” the general muttered. “You catch on fast, Mortimer, so I’ll cut to the chase. Hand over the Princess. And I’ll withdraw my forces.”

“Oh?” Jack’s surprise leaked out.

Ansel blurted out, “Wait, we’re telling him now?”

But Tim was unbothered, the tips of his fingers playfully massaging the ivory surface of a tile. “That depends. You don’t happen to be working for the owner of this, do you?”

Reaching into his coat, the guards instinctively held onto their concealed weapons, ready to fire in a heartbeat. But instead of a gun, they saw a bullet, one contained in a small transparent bag.

“Fascinating,” exclaimed the general. “Unfortunately, I can’t disclose such information. Still, I believe our interests are aligned. You seek revenge on the kingdom, yes? I’d much rather have you on our side. I was even told you’d make a perfect king.”

Cold sweat leaked out of both Ansel and Jack, the former a lot more than the latter. The conversation at the table morphed into something way beyond their pay grade.

“A puppet, you mean,” Tim corrected. “Just a piece of advice—try not to get tangled with The Surface.”

“That makes two of us. Hand over the Princess, and we can both leave The Surface, and each other, alone.”

“If you let me meet your client, I’ll consider it.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, Exiled.” The General’s glare froze the air around the table. “As we speak, my forces are already closing in on the massage parlor where you’re keeping her. You will do as I—”

“That’s not what we agreed on, woman!” Ansel snapped.

Jack stepped in, “Now, now, let’s all focus on the game, shall we?”

The pressure from the table reached the boiling point, bleeding into the audience. The three players watched as Tim discarded a useless tile, suspicion colored differently in their eyes. Everyone else had the colors drained from their faces. The entire round had been a roller coaster, but the biggest drop was yet to come, waiting in between Ansel’s fingers.

Tim asked, “What’s the matter, O’Keefe? I thought you wanted to keep the fun coming?”

“Don’t change the subject.” The General pressed with a deep rumble, causing the mob boss next to her to hesitate. “I’m offering you one last chance before I give the order to my men. Don’t make this difficult.”

“I’ll make it easier for you. Since we both can’t come to an understanding, why don’t we settle it with this round? If I lose, you can have her. If I win, you let me see your client. But if this round ends in a draw, then we both get what we want.”

Dark energy swirled around Tim’s palm, the sudden development sending panic to all four corners of the private theater. Lights flickered as the broadcast to the main hall turned to static. The chandelier right above shook nervously. Tiny fragments from the ceiling fell as if they announced the arrival of an earthquake. Ansel stumbled back, falling off his seat. But Jack and the General knew exactly the magic they were witnessing.

The creation of a Mana Contract.

Ancient Magic that directly altered reality, the method of drafting unknown to all except the oldest, most primordial Immortals. The fabric that weaved their very immortality into existence. By accepting the conditions laid out, both parties must see to their end of the bargain. Failure to do so resulted in unimaginable consequences. Even for Immortals, unbound by the cycle of life and death, they dared not renege on their contracts.

To see such devilry employed for a simple game of mahjong, even the General was taken aback. In theory, the conditions favored her mission greatly. With only a few tiles left, the odds of the round ending in a draw were extremely high. Also, because Ansel’s winning tile was obvious, she and Jack could throw the game, ensuring Tim’s Responsibility Payment forced his score into the negatives, guaranteeing his loss.

And yet, she hesitated. Years of experience as a military commander warned her not to accept. Initially, she dismissed reports of an anomaly from her scouts. The Jogging Man. One of her Exiled snipers even attempted suicide purely from looking at his soul. The General may have lacked the ability to wield magic, but she understood the kind of madness that radiated from such an individual. This was something beyond mortal comprehension.

This was a trap.

“I refuse. I will not be intimidated by the likes of you,” she snarled.

“Oh, don’t be mistaken. I don’t need to intimidate you, General,” Tim answered as a matter of fact, the energy dissipating from his hand. “O’Keefe. Please, we’re all waiting for you.”

The trembling mob boss crawled back onto his seat, immediately tossing away a tile like a coin. “There! Are you happy now, freak?!”

“Very.”

Tim flipped open his entire hand. He had three ones, three nines, and one of every number in between. All in the same dotted suit. And by claiming Ansel’s discarded tile, he achieved victory with a limit hand of his own.

True Nine Gates.