Chapter 442 Puppeeter of Cards
Somehow, the air around the table grew grave and solemn once the dealer known as the Devil's Touch approached the table.
There was an enigmatic presence about the man whose gender was revealed through his physique and the edges of his facial structure, which showed during his odd angle of approach.
Shoulders broader than any woman could possibly achieve, even with the help of advanced hormone therapy—a squarish face with a pronounced, toned jaw.
Even the edges of his cheekbones seemed… defined.
Enough to make you wonder if dealing was his only forte. The tailored suit could very well hide the physique of a fighter… or maybe a killer, given his environment.
"You two have played very well. So much so that I feel it is only right to make your experience as best as possible. As they say, the most fun can only be had when the Devil's Touch… touches the situation."
The dealer—Devil's Touch—had a surprisingly soothing voice, basso, but not overwhelmingly so. There was a lightness to it that weaved in seamlessly to create a magnetic pull.
'Must be the first part of his trickery.'
There was a reason he earned his name. There were masters of sleight of hand… and then there was the Devil's Touch, who somehow performed acts so inexplicable it could only be called magic.
But Weasel has resolved himself to beat the Devil's Touch. He had never done so before, but he felt tonight was a good night. It started terribly, but now the building momentum was like a locomotive ramping up to meet unstoppable top speeds.
Devil's Touch adjusted his mask and tilted his head down where he hid the dangerous and whimsical gleam in his eyes. His voice spread like a mesmerizing unfurling of the finest and most resilient silk.
"The dealer is ready. And the players? Oh… considering you all have each earned beyond $1,000,000 in hands. What do you say we up the ante? I don't know, max hands of $100,000 each for now?"
Kieran looked to Weasel, who returned a tentative glance. The former was down for whatever, but the latter knew the dealer's games. He excelled in trickery. Before you knew it, all your money was gone… and you were left not knowing how!
Oh, it made Weasel's blood boil just thinking about it. His card-counting skills had previously proved to be no match against Devil's Touch. But that was months ago, and the him today was different.
He had spent countless grueling hours with his mind in anguish while attempting to calculate and crack inconceivably fast algorithms. It was nothing but probability.
He could do it… right?
They both focused on the dealer, Weasel giving a grim nod while Kieran seemed insouciant. After all, his game wasn't the cards. It was the player beside him.
'Break the little Weasel so I may pick up the pieces free of charge.'
With the dealer came a new deck. But as per his principles, Devil's Touch flipped it face-side up and revealed every unique card to his players. No duplicates. Why would he need them? His specialty had nothing to do with fabricating cards out of thin air.
Well, that was magic. Who could do that in this world? Everything had an origin… an explanation. Finding Devil Touch's secret truths was difficult.
The hands were flipped, and Kieran watched.
The first round resulted in the House losing. An additional $100,000 in chips were given to Kieran and Weasel.
The second round? An identical result.
It made Devil's Touch smile behind his mask, the change in expression faintly detectable in his eyes. Though, his tone truly gave it away—now tinged with crafty glee.
"You two are terrific at this. If this were poker, I'd say you know when to Hold 'Em and when to Fold 'Em. Since this is blackjack, however, I'd say you know when to Stand away from a Hit and take a Hit. But… what if the cards hit back? What will you do then?"
Before dealing the third round, Devil's Touch stood with hands akimbo and fingers spread out. A subtle ominous feeling came from those hands.
What were they capable of?
Weasel knew, but Kieran wasn't too familiar. All he could detect was the bizarre presence all abnormal people gave off. The dealer was either a Superhuman at the cusp of becoming an Inhuman or a newly-born Inhuman like himself.
Kieran, unfortunately, wasn't too familiar with detecting the usage of this energy. It was too faint, too fine—like translucent, hollow threads.
The dealing happened so fast this time, Kieran swore he heard—no, he felt—a whoosh sweep across the table.
"Hit or Stand?"
It was Kieran's turn, but Weasel uncontrollably blurted out his opinion.
"Stand!"
Unlike the former dealer, Devil's Touch only spared Weasel a silent glance before meeting Kieran's gaze.
A true master of a craft remained unaffected by outside opinion, confident only in their skill and nothing else. Who could take the validity of that skill away? No one. They had earned it, and it was here to stay.
Still, Kieran was here to break down Weasel in a way. The only way to do that properly without angering the irascible fellow was to follow his instruction and reveal the inferiority of it.
"Stand."
Devil's Touch nodded, sliding his white-gloved hand across the table.
"Hit or Stand?"
Weasel chose differently for himself. His cards were lower and ideal for a Hit.
"Hit!"
A "19" is what he received.
Given the dealer was showing a "9", Weasel sighed a hitched breath of relief. It should be a Push. That is what he wanted, what he Flipped, Devil's Touch showed an Ace of Spades, holding a "20" now.
believed.
But reality—that oh-so-cruel mistress—played games with the poor fellow's mind.
Flipped, Devil's Touch showed an Ace of Spades, holding a "20" now.
"The House wins."
He paused, cleared the table, and then spoke again.
"Place your bets."
Kieran commented without turning his head.
"You win some; you lose some. Not everything can be a winning hand."
He didn't need to turn his head to know that Weasel's expression had darkened, heading down the ugly road of contemptuous outrage. So, Kieran bit back a smile and pushed another $100,000 worth of chips forward.
Weasel reciprocated. Another tense hand was played, and it was even more infuriating this time.
Devil's Touch miraculously dealt himself a Blackjack.
Weasel counted the cards, reminding himself how many face cards remained in the deck, the combinations of twenty-ones remaining, and the number of cards left in the entire stacks.
With that, he placed his bets on the next round.
A loss.
Another loss.
A string of whore-fucking losses.
"You stinking bastard! Your trickery knows no end. I will beat you. I will beat these manipulated odds, you father fucker… damned motherfucker too. Family fucker. You cheeky prick!"
"My friend, calm. We are only here to play cards and enjoy the night. You remain with chips, and so the night is young. Let me in your mind, and you'll never win again."
Devil's Touch smiled; his calm words were a poisonous attack on Weasel's mind.
The cheeky aplomb in his words corroded Weasel's rationality like vile acid. His calculations were became sloppy. His mind was traveling everywhere and not where it needed to be.
In his gnawing outrage and disturbing teeth gnashing, he missed Devil's Touch shuffling the card. He did, but Kieran didn't. He had noticed. The odds were refreshed, or maybe more nightmarishly manipulated?
It was all a strange thing—playing cards with Devil's Touch. He was an artist of trickery, a maestro of deceit, and a puppeteer of cards.
'Hold on… a puppeteer?'
Kieran revisited that earlier sensation. The threads. Were they not similar to how marionette dolls were controlled with thin, expertly placed strings?
A radiant and intense sharpness burned in Kieran's eyes, growing keener by the second. With enough focus, the strings became visible again. Their presence was incredibly indistinct, but Kieran could feel it.
The threads were not uniform in placement but were even in size—
a grand total of fifty threads. The main thread split into three, the adjacent splits then bifurcating to make five identical threads.
That happened on each finger.
Two cards, however, remained uninfluenced by Devil's Touch. This kind of energy was likely hard to manipulate further. Those cards probably remained uninfluenced until the dealer shuffled and created a new set of controlling strings.
With this new information, Kieran let Weasel sink in his quagmire of infuriation. Meanwhile, Kieran continued to win hands using the knowledge he obtained.
Sometime later, though, Weasel started to blame him, and Devil's Touch grew skeptical, maybe even wary of Kieran.
Had his secret been ousted? Did he give away his masterful legerdemain? It had taken years, roughly decades of practice, but few could see through him after reaching this level. Those that could were years beyond him in age.
The boy before him didn't seem a day beyond twenty.
Still, Kieran only lost on hands where his bet was minimal, not even $1,000. More than that, he only placed those bets after Weasel had decided his own like he was taunting the squirrelly rodent of a man.
A few rounds after that, Devil's Touch presence changed, and he only focused on Kieran, ignoring Weasel. Only one at the table had proven themselves an adversary for his sly dealings.
The strings he strained to detect… vanished.
"Young man, care to play the Devil's Round?"
The 𝘮ost uptodat𝑒 novels are pub𝙡ished on fre(e)webno(v)el.𝒸𝑜𝘮