The hall was silent. Bassario and the champion sat at opposite ends of a table. With this table as the center, the banker drew a circle with a radius of about three meters in the sand, and all the spectators had to stay outside it. Then, he blindfolded them both tightly with black cloth strips.
On the table were twenty full glasses of wine, which were the main attraction. The banker's last task was to randomly select ten glasses and drop a white chip into each. All the spectators, especially those who had bet on the outcome, tried their best to follow his hand movements, watching the translucent chips leave his fingers and fall into the wine.
The chips were made from a substance extracted from a particular insect. Dissolved in wine, it gave a special sweet taste and enhanced the wine's stimulating effects. However, consuming too much at once would cause poisoning. With the banker's current dosage—a standard amount for such bets—drinking three glasses would cause severe adverse reactions, and five could be fatal. Now, Bassario and the champion had to each choose a glass of wine per round, drink it, wait thirty seconds, and repeat until a winner was determined: one party would collapse or concede. Normally, the rule was ten glasses with five poisoned, but this time both numbers were doubled.
Like various card games, this bet required not only luck but also judgment. The participants were blindfolded during the poisoning phase and didn't know which glasses were poisoned. However, they had one crucial piece of information: due to the distinct taste difference, they could tell if they had drunk poisoned wine and estimate their opponent's situation and the likelihood of drinking poison again. Beyond luck and judgment, the key factor was how far they were willing to push their own lives. Typically, after drinking two poisoned glasses, if the opponent hadn't collapsed or conceded, they would usually give up due to pain and fear.
This wasn't just a game between the two participants. The spectators knew the poisoning situation and could judge the participants' poisoning levels based on their expressions. They weren't allowed to speak and had to stay three meters away to prevent signaling. They naturally adhered to this rule because it was almost a life-or-death duel between the participants, and cheating would severely violate the mercenary group's values. If spectators clearly signaled, the banker could stop the bet or rule a violation. However, this didn't mean the spectators couldn't influence the participants. When the tension rose, their breathing changes and the overall atmosphere provided crucial hints to the participants.
Bossia stood three meters behind Bassario, not watching closely which glasses were poisoned, nor wanting to. Once the bet was proposed, she couldn't stop him, and the only question was why he did it. She would find out afterward. He must have a way…knowing he would win.
Assuming Bassario would win, Bossia knew she didn't truly want to stop him emotionally. Regardless of the cause, the champion had tried to insult her in front of everyone, which was a fact. Since Bassario was present, he should react to this fact. She needed him to stand by her.
The champion believed he was a lucky person. As a mercenary for five years, he had never encountered real danger, not to mention earning his title in scorpion fighting. This taught him to look on the bright side. When he saw Bossia kill the scorpion, he didn't feel much regret. Scorpions could be caught again, but the chance to humiliate this woman in front of everyone was rare. He even believed his proposal to have her replace the coins might come true—a thought that wasn't new to him. Seeing Bassario step in, he also believed that even if he was momentarily at fault, everyone would still look down on the native and the woman in the end. But when the blindfold was on, he couldn't stay optimistic. He became a "champion" because he could accurately judge whether his scorpion was in fighting condition; once the fight started, he understood all the movements and trends and felt confident. These tasks required his eyes. Now, he couldn't see anything.
The banker spoke. The first round. According to the coin toss, the champion picked a glass first, then it was Bassario's turn.
The champion's hand paused in the center, then moved to the left and lowered. As soon as he touched a glass's edge, he wanted to move again but realized he couldn't show a lack of confidence at the start, so he picked up the glass and brought it to his mouth. The banker announced it was Bassario's turn. About three seconds later, the banker gave the order for both to drink. Afterward, they had to turn the glass upside down according to the rules to prove they drank it all and then set it down.
The champion licked his palate and teeth with his tongue. No special taste. Five seconds. Ten seconds passed. Only the familiar burning sensation of alcohol in his throat. Thirty seconds passed. Definitely not poisoned.
"First round over. Start the second round," the banker said. This time, Bassario picked first. After a moment, the champion selected his glass from the middle right. Before drinking, he eagerly hoped Bassario's first two glasses were poisoned.
—His second glass wasn't. The spectators didn't react much. If Bassario had already taken two poisoned glasses, the scene wouldn't be like this. Meaning, out of the remaining sixteen glasses, at least nine were poisoned. Sixteen to nine. Sixteen to nine. The champion repeated the numbers in his mind.
"Third round."
The third glass, carefully tasted with his tongue…still nothing…no. Sweetness. The taste spread from the tip of his tongue, a sudden impact in his brain, not painful but making him gasp, feeling his whole body swell. It was…poison. Of course, before overconsumption, it was a good thing. It made the champion want to stand up, letting his swollen body and spirit fill the room. He shook his head, cursing, realizing he lost control. The onlookers must have noticed. They knew I drank poison. What about the native? How is the native?
Thirty seconds later, Bassario didn't forfeit, meaning he hadn't reached his limit of poisoned wine. The champion recalculated. Sixteen glasses left, nine to ten poisoned, three rounds in, I drank one, so fourteen glasses left, six to eight poisoned. Seven to four, seven to three odds. Same for me and the native.
Fourth round. Before drinking, the champion didn't know what result to hope for. It was hard to hide his hesitation. Those bastards knew. Knew I already drank one. If the native hasn't yet…
Sweetness. No, just leftover taste. Or maybe his tongue was desensitized. No, definitely not. Drinking two poisoned glasses would cause serious discomfort. I haven't experienced it but seen…most people give up now. Their veins bulge and darken. The pain makes them give up. But I don't feel that bad. I can continue. Can't give up…the native? Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Fifth round, banker spoke! The native didn't give up!
Fifth round is…my turn to choose first. Don't rush, I need time. Move slower. I have time to think. I only drank one. The native maybe two, one, or three…unlikely. Already eight glasses used, he couldn't be zero. Fifth round, twelve glasses left, six to eight poisoned. At least half chance. Can't delay, must drink—
Second poisoned glass, fifteen seconds in, champion felt the difference. Comforting body swell turned to skin tearing from within. Skull felt like it sprouted hooks to destroy his brain. Ears started cutting out sounds.
—They gave up now? Not yet. I'm the champion. They're trash. Trash. I…sixth round. Must be sixth round. No, thirty seconds not passed. Can't rush. Crowd noisy. Quiet! I need to think. Did the native do something? Sixth round, twelve…no, ten glasses. Half left. Table almost empty. Thirty seconds? Sixth round, who spoke? Banker? Yes, again. Native didn't give up. Worst case, zero for him, two for me, ten glasses, eight poisoned…impossible. Means I lost. Pain's bearable, I can take four. Must be fine. Native drank one, not zero—
"Stop yelling, you sons of bitches! Don't tell me... you're all on his side? I need to know what's happening. Damn blindfold. The wine... where's the next glass? I've taken this spot. Nothing nearby either. He took it. Then here... found it. Got it. I'll hold it steady. Drink it in one go. Because after this round, I'll win. No next round. The native, that woman, everyone watching here, everyone who owes me money, every fool who loses to my scorpion, every schemer against me, everyone who thinks the champion will surrender, will lose to the native... all of them...
In the sixth round, the champion drank poisoned wine, but this time his mind was blank. Before the banker announced the start of the seventh round, he grabbed the next glass as if pulling something from the ground, even knocking over another glass on the table. He stopped halfway through drinking, moved the glass from his mouth. People saw the veins in his neck and the backs of his hands bulge as if black roots were embedding into his body. He tilted his head back, trembling hand bringing the glass to his lips again. Before the remaining liquid touched his lips, he collapsed.
"Stop," said the banker. "Someone quickly take him out to get help, don't let him die. The bets can be settled later."
Bassario set down the seventh glass he hadn't drunk from, removed the blindfold, and stood up. Bossia approached, tugging at his sleeve, studying his face. His veins were also prominent, but not as severe as the champion's.
"Are you okay?" Bossia said. "You can't be okay. Let's go to the doctor."
"I'm fine," Bassario said. Though he sounded alright, she still clung to his arm, partially supporting him as they walked to the door. She tried not to look at his face or pay attention to how the mercenaries were staring at them.
Near the door, Bossia noticed Rahol. She walked past him. He looked at her without any mockery, only a restrained severity. When he said, "It's not worth keeping you here," his expression was similar. Bossia felt a slight urge to speak to Rahol, even though she didn't know what to say. She didn't.
Outside, after a dozen steps, Bossia felt Bassario's weight increasing against her.
"How much did you drink?" she said. "How many were poisoned? Tell me quickly."
Bassario didn't respond. He gave a strained smile. He pulled his arm from Bossia's grasp, took a couple of steps forward, and then collapsed.