Chapter 181: High Stakes Gambling 20
Damon was soon proven right as Nicholas' story unfolded.
The area darkened, and the marble tiles beneath Nicholas' feet dissolved into weathered cobblestone, damp and coated in soot. Rain fell from an overcast sky, not in sheets but in a steady drizzle, turning grime into sludge.
The skyline was unmistakably London, but not the one in postcards… this was the underbelly.
A narrow alley appeared ahead, lit only by flickering streetlamps and the occasional neon sign. Trash bins overflowed, and rats darted from one shadow to the next.
A boy no older than eight emerged from one of the side doors, dressed in clothes far too thin for the season. His hands were scraped, his shoes didn't match, and his breath fogged the air, but his eyes were sharp.
A soundless projection appeared above the boy: [His name was supposed to be Lord Nicholas Spencley, second son of a Viscount and heir to a comfortable life.]
The crowd watched as another child - identical in appearance - was gently tucked into a carriage under the cloak of night. Meanwhile, the real Nicholas was slipped through a servant's entrance and left to fend for himself in London's slums.
The scene fast-forwarded.
A young Nicholas swept floors at a bar in order to survive, but his pay was barely worth a few cents.
He failed to pay his monthly 'urchin tax' and was beaten by a gang of older street boys.
The usually timid young man who was soft spoken had learned to lie, flatter, and cheat in order to make a living.
He was even jailed once at eleven years old, then released without charges, outsmarting even the authorities using deception.
At fifteen, he worked under a cruel loan shark, becoming a feared name in the local community by men twice his age.
By sixteen, he was the one giving orders, his boss having miraculously passed away while leaving the keys to his wealth to him, Nicholas.
And yet, through it all, the boy never raised his voice to shout or roar, never slouched and never begged.
He dressed well, spoke better, and demanded to be treated as if he still bore a title no one else remembered.
Then came the final scene, a mirror in a tear parlor bathroom. Nicholas - now twenty-one - was seen adjusting his collar, polishing his shoes with a rag.
The building behind him, which bore the name Spencley Manor, was being invaded by his men and dragging the Viscount and his family out to the street amidst begging for more time to pay the debts.
Despite everything, the man in charge of all this stood there, immaculate and alone as he watched his family be beaten and humiliated to death on London's streets, the police simply standing aide with ashamed faces.
The question floated above him in golden script: [Was it pride… or was it dignity?]
Nicholas tilted his head ever so slightly as if the question amused him.
"I was not raised to survive, nor trained to suffer, yet I did both without shedding a name I no longer had the right to claim." He began, voice level and crisp.
He walked toward the projection of the mirror, then gently tapped its surface with his cane.
"My dignity was the only inheritance that could not be stolen, and so I kept it clean. I kept myself clean."
He turned to the crowd.
"I have been filthy, hungry and powerless, but I was never small nor weak."
He paused and glanced at the crowd askance, his expression extremely aloof and arrogant.
"And that… is what I am most proud of."
The Pre-Chaos beings nodded wither heads with satisfaction, feeling that their opinions of these humans had changed. Some of them had very questionable motivations that they did not really understand, like Kyle and Henry, but those like Bane and Nicholas were more to their speed.
The voting came and Nicholas had passed as well.
Nicholas returned to the Vanguard Team with a gentlemanly gait and a smile on his face, the soft tap of his cane echoing through the silence.
The silence held for only a moment before the wheel stirred once more.
It spun slowly, like it too needed a breath after what it had just witnessed. The crowd leaned in with anticipation, the lights dimming slightly as the pointer ticked past Hope, brushed against Redemption, and came to a stop on a segment that shimmered like cracked glass laced with gold veins.
"Expression!" Nyros announced, his voice quieter than before.
The name that lit up was Marshal.
Marshal stepped forward with no flourish, nor any drama.
Just footsteps, slow and steady.
The arena dimmed more deeply than it had for any before him. A thick fog began to roll in, muting even the ambient crowd noise, until the only thing the Vanguard could hear was the steady sound of Marshal's boots.
Then the world cracked as reality peeled away like paper, revealing something beneath that should never have been seen.
A cold and sterile hallway emerged, lined with doors where each one was numbered and locked tightly. On top of that, each one was marked with a symbol instead of a name.
The walls were padded with some material that made it look soft, yet it was impossible for even a tank to breakthrough. The lighting here was artificial and oppressive, humming like a dentist's drill inside one's skull.
Then came the sounds, the screams.
They were not of pain or agony, but rather of frustration.
Inside one of the numbered rooms - Room 4 - sat a young boy no older than seven, hugging his knees in a white jumpsuit. His eyes were wide but dim, too tired to cry and his lips moved… but no sound came.
A projection appeared.
[Subject 4A. Non-verbal and unresponsive, likely defective. Recommendation: isolate and observe.]
The scene shifted.
The boy aged as time passed going from seven to nine years old, then twelve. Despite this, he still did not speak and still was never addressed by name.
He still moved only when forced to and still watched the world through soundproof glass, always trying to form words.
He wasn't mute.
He simply… wasn't heard.
Doctors came and went over the years. Then the privacy of his testing chamber, some directly tore off their masks and mocked his flaws while some cold tested various remedies endlessly, without caring about his suffering.
Even as the boy spoke endlessly, still none listened.
One night, a staff member lost their temper and the projection didn't hide the next scene. A man in scrubs shoved the boy hard against the wall and screamed something in his face.
In response, the boy opened his mouth… and reality trembled.
The man clutched his ears and collapsed, his eyes wide like he had heard something inconceivable while blood poured from every orifice.
The lights flickered and the 'camera' static surged, showing that even the casino suffered some form of backlash for displaying this.
The scene cut and the projection changed.
Now, a teenage version of Marshal stood in front of a panel of researchers behind a one-way mirror.
Their notes were clinical.
[Subject finally spoke. Effects: Class Omega. Linguistic resonance induced total mental collapse in a seven-meter radius. Facility compromised. Ethics board recommends termination. Project lead recommends… utilization.]
Then came the final scene.
Marshal, now eighteen, stood alone in a void-like simulation chamber while speakers lined the walls. A voice crackled through the intercom:
"Say your name, 4A."
Marshal didn't move.
"Say it, and you walk out."
There was a long pause, then he opened his mouth… and all the speakers imploded.
The walls shattered, the light died and looking up from the broken ceiling above, the sky was not Earth's, but a the void itself.
Then, silence again.
The scene shattered as the casino's question appeared, trembling this time: [When the world refuses to hear you… what do your words become?]
Marshal finally looked up with a calm expression. He hadn't spoken in his old 'language' once since that day and even his ability Words of Power, used a different and less burdensome accent.
But now, he utilized that ancient dialect as he answered the casino.
"Truth."
It was one word, but it rang through the arena like the tolling of a divine bell as the tiles cracked beneath his feet.
The Vanguard Team where shocked while Damon's pupils constricted rapidly, for his Probability Manipulation - for the first time in his life since he acquired it - actually activated unbidden, protecting him from the reality bending effect autonomously.
The pre-chaos beings only wore expressions of fear and horror.
"Chaos Origin Script! He can speak in Chaos Origin Script! How can a mere Post-Chaos species do this?!"
Nyros' seemed to understand something as he glanced at Marshal warily, but he silenced the unsettled pre-chaos beings and had them vote.
The votes came in and all green, not a single red.
Even Nyros seemed slightly subdued as Marshal walked back to the team without a word.
This Vanguard Team… he really did not agree with the casino's initial idea, but thankfully, he had come to a compromise with it.
As Marshal rejoined the group, Xela let out a loud gasp, then beamed so brightly it was almost jarring compared to her usual measured demeanor.
"That's it! That has to be it! Everyone passed! Every single one of us! That has to mean we win the challenge, right?" She exclaimed with excitement, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Henry's eyes shone with hope. "A perfect record, eleven participants, eleven passes, right?"
"By the Area's micro rules, that's statistically impossible for a first run. We kinda broke the system, amirite?" He said, grinning widely.
Kyle tilted his head. "Huh. Did we just beat a paradoxical game… with truth?"
Bane didn't speak, but the slight upward quirk of his lip was telling.
Even Nicholas gave a subtle nod. "A clean sweep in a realm built on contradictions... That has to count for something."
Excitement rippled through the group as for the first time since entering the Chaos Realm, victory didn't feel like delusion… it felt earned.
Then Felicia stepped forward beside Damon, her expression neutral and almost too composed.
"Actually, you're all mistaken." She said softly.
The joy in the air paused, like a balloon slowly losing air.
Damon gave a thin smile, voice sharp as glass. "The game isn't over, not yet."
Xela blinked, confused. "What do you mean? Everyone passed. There's no one left."
Felicia's eyes turned to Nyros. "They weren't trying to beat the rest of us with the wheel. They were waiting for the right moment."
The alien crowd stiffened slightly as they had been discovered.
Damon walked forward, each step deliberate. "This entire game, this performance of soul-stripping, virtue-weighing, tear-jerking theater… it was a trap."
The Vanguard looked around, now realizing that Felicia and Damon had never seemed relaxed, not even once.
"A trap? For whom?" Henry repeated, voice tight.
Damon's gaze turned cold.
"For me." He revealed, pointing upward to the wheel.
The wheel shuddered as the lights flickered rapidly, and for the first time since the challenge began, Nyros' smile disappeared completely.