Gambles

When I first met Ophelia, she was broken.

Not just wounded, not just lost—shattered in a way few people ever come back from.

I found her in that Gloomtaur dungeon, frightened, her pale skin marred with bruises, her wrists raw from chains. She looked fragile, like a candle flickering in the dark, moments from being snuffed out.

She was terrified of me.

I could see it in her eyes—the way they darted, the way her breath caught when I moved too fast, the way she pressed herself against the stone walls as if they could protect her. I had seen fear before, fed on fear before. But something about hers was different.

When I leaned in, my fangs grazing the delicate skin of her neck, I expected the usual reaction—struggling, begging, whimpers of despair.

But instead, she did something no one else had ever done.

She smiled.

Not out of joy. Not out of defiance. But out of resignation.

A desperate, almost relinquished smile.

She was ready to die.

That was when I knew—she was insane.

Not in the way people claim to be, not in the way that breaks loudly. No, hers was the kind that seeps deep, rots quietly, lingers like a sickness that cannot be cured.

I pulled back.

I didn't take her blood.

And in that moment, that haunting, resigned smile twisted into something exhausted. Defeated.

It was amusing, really.

I had always been a gambler.

That was how I climbed to the pinnacle of southern society—betting, risking, gambling with my own life on the line. Small bets, large bets, all of them leading me higher and higher until I was standing at the very top, looking down at the kingdom I had conquered.

Did I have a problem?

Probably.

But that was beside the point—because right then, in that dungeon, as I stared at the broken thing in front of me, I took another gamble.

A gamble that would eventually get me killed.

I tilted my head, smiled, and said, "Wanna leave?"

Her expression flickered—emotions warring behind her eyes, shifting so quickly I could barely track them. Confusion, hesitation, something like hope before it was ripped away and replaced with a blank, unreadable stare.

Then, finally—

She nodded. Just slightly.

"But how?"

I grinned. "I've been using these Gloomtaurs as blood bags to help me recover. I've just about fully recovered. So… let's leave."

And we did.

I shattered the rusted metal door like it was paper. The chains that bound her snapped under my fingers, and together, we escaped that dungeon.

By the time we reached the surface, the warm sunny air was soft against my skin. I spread my wings, wrapped my arms around Ophelia's waist, and we left that place behind—soaring over the landscape, flying south, back home.

The flight was silent.

She didn't speak.

I didn't press.

When we arrived, I led her through the halls of my sandstone palace, showing her to a room beside mine. I didn't explain anything. Didn't ask if she was comfortable. Didn't tell her what came next.

I simply left her there.

I had things to do—tasks left abandoned during my absence. And when I finally returned to my chambers that night, I heard it.

Through the walls.

Sobbing.

Raw. Gut-wrenching. The kind that didn't stop, the kind that sounded like it was tearing something apart from the inside out.

I could have gone to her.

But I didn't.

I slept through it.

Because I had already decided—she was a gamble.

And she was worth the risk.

Over the next few months, I trained her. Molded her. She was already broken, already insane—I simply had to direct it. Shape it. Turn it into something useful.

It was hard to create insanity.

But if it was already there, already festering beneath the surface, all I had to do was sharpen it. Temper it into a blade that could cut through the world.

And every night, through the walls, I heard her sob.

Uncontrollable. Choking. A spiral of despair so deep it should have consumed her. Should have brought her to the point of suicide.

But I did nothing.

Because this was part of it.

This was how it grew.

Pain. Loss. Desperation.

All of it forging her into something stronger.

Then one night—

It stopped.

No sobbing.

No crying.

No screams.

Just silence.

And when morning came…

She was gone.

…

(Present Day)

Amunet's form began to shift, swirling with the snow around her. The wind howled, ice and frost whipping in a violent storm. Ophelia didn't wait. She surged forward, spear leading the charge, but the moment she entered the vortex, a biting cold lashed at her skin. Frost crept up her outstretched arms, pain sharp and immediate. She barely had time to react before she jerked back, landing a safe distance away.

The storm settled. Amunet's blood-red attire faded into nothing, replaced by a long, dark blue coat lined with thick white fur. The same fur made up a large hat that covered her head and ears. Her spear, once crimson, cracked apart, reforming into a massive lance of deep blue crystalline ice.

Her skin was now a pale blue. The gold and crimson jewelry she had worn before had changed, reshaped into the same dark blue crystal as her weapon. She exhaled, her breath visible in the freezing air.

Ophelia's eyes narrowed. Amunet muttered a single word.

"[Santa]."

Her dark blue eyes snapped open. A blast of icy wind shot outward, nearly knocking Ophelia off her feet. She slammed her mercury spear into the ground, anchoring herself before the force could send her stumbling.

She stared at Amunet, grip tightening around her weapon. "Is this the power you obtained upon regressing? I do not recall you having such strength."

Amunet's smile was slow. "It is." Then, with a tilt of her head, she added, "And why do you talk like that? It's pissing me off, Ophelia."

Ophelia remained still, her expression unwavering. "I talk how a royal should. Unlike somebody I know."

Amunet's grin widened. She lifted her lance.

Before she could move, Ophelia shot out a hand. "Wait."

Amunet's brow twitched, but she lowered her weapon. Ophelia met her gaze, voice steady. "There is no need for this right now. Even though we do get a reward, we do not know what it is. Also, there is no benefit to fighting when there are problems far greater than settling past debts."

Amunet tilted her head, considering. Then, with a quiet chuckle, she said, "Oh, but I'm a gambling woman. Settling debts is a must if you wish to gamble more."

Ophelia's eyebrow twitched. Her grip on her spear tightened.

"So be it, then."

Ophelia closed her eyes. A single heartbeat echoed in the void. When she snapped them open, her silver parasite lay bound before her—massive, restrained by thick blue chains, a glowing stake driven through its skull, pinning it to the abyss below.

Hundreds of eyes lined its grotesque body, and in an instant, all of them shifted toward her.

"I will be taking more power whether you like it or not," Ophelia said, her voice steady. "But… I am very suspicious of you. You have not tried to resist at all. What is it that you really want? Or is me using your power doing something for you?"

The parasite remained silent. Another stake, glowing the same deep blue, formed above it. It plunged downward, impaling its spine, driving it deeper into the abyss.

Then, before her, two panels appeared.

[You have attempted to forcibly break through to the next stage.]

[You have failed.]

[Your parasite will suffer for this.]

Ophelia clicked her tongue. She shut her eyes again, then snapped them open.

The abyss was gone.

Amunet stood before her, lance raised, her expression unreadable—until she took a step back, a shiver running through her. Ophelia's mercury armor and weapon vanished. In their place, golden light wrapped around her like fire.

Amunet's eyes widened. "Ophelia… you sold your soul to the devil?"

Ophelia barely glanced at her. Under her breath, she spoke. "As your apostle of light and greatness, I wield the [Supreme Command]."

Golden light expanded, engulfing the battlefield. The surviving Gloomtaurs, except for Mabbel and the Holy Knights, became bathed in its glow. Blood trickled from Ophelia's nose, but she raised a hand.

"I was saving this for later, but… I cannot beat you right now." 

The screams of hundreds of Gloomtaurs tore through the snowfield.

A cold smile curled her lips.

Amunet felt it—an instinct, a command to end this now. She dashed forward.

Then a crack split the air, so loud it was deafening.

She halted, stunned, as the mana of every Gloomtaur drained into Ophelia, siphoned away in an instant. From the distant forest, the earth itself responded—massive chunks, each half a mile long, tore free from the ground, rising into the sky.

Ophelia collapsed to her knees, blood streaming from her eyes. Her free hand dug into her thigh, forcing herself to stay conscious. Then she swung her arm.

Half of the massive earth fragments shot toward Amunet, the other half toward the Grumblehold army.

Amunet rushed forward, trying to cut through the storm. A chunk of earth barreled toward her. She sliced through it, freezing both halves in the air, but more followed. She dodged, weaved, struck, but there were too many. The battlefield became chaos, the ground vanishing beneath a relentless assault. The pressure built, overwhelming.

Then one hit her.

She flew across the snow-dusted prarie, vision blurring. In the corner of her eye, another massive chunk descended from above. It crashed down, burying her beneath the frozen earth.

Across the battlefield, the Grumbehold bandits suffered the same fate. Hundreds were crushed in an instant. Only a few hundred remained, and at their head, the Bandit King stood, an immovable force, shielding his men from the falling destruction.

When the final pieces of earth settled, Ophelia forced herself upright. She coughed, so much blood spilling from her lips that the snow beneath her turned red. Limping, she moved toward the rubble where Amunet had fallen.

No corpse.

Her jaw tightened. 

No system notification.

"She escaped…" Ophelia muttered. "Even after I used my last trump card meant to wipe out the entire bandit army."

She slumped against the wreckage, breathing heavily.

Again, the words left her lips. "As your apostle of light and greatness, I wield the [Supreme Command]."

Exhaustion clawed at her, but the battle wasn't over. She had left her army in a vulnerable position. There was no choice.

The [Supreme Command] activated once more.

The fallen Gloomtaurs, drained and broken, stirred. Their bodies, once wracked with pain, felt warmth—light pulling them back.

One by one, they rose again.

The battle must go on.