echo bet

Fog blanketed the street like thick white silk—not from the cold, but from something quietly breathing beneath the ground.

The two of them walked through the heart of the town—once the busiest part of all. Now, only broken shops remained, cracked signboards, and streetlights flickering with an orange glow like they were half-dying… half-smirking.

Every footstep echoed, as if colliding against the dense, pressurized air.

They passed a barbershop—its chair still gently rocking, like someone had just stood up.

Then a toy store—where porcelain dolls sat neatly in rows, their broken eyes turning to follow them.

Dathweet:

"It's… not like the other places. No games, no hosts."

Lyun (pausing):

"This place doesn't need a game. It is one."

Suddenly, a faint clicking echoed behind them.

They turned.

No one.

Again—click… clack…

Across the street, through the mist—a shadow emerged.

Two meters tall. A head swollen like an infant's. A body stitched together without any anatomical logic. Gray skin. Muscles bulging unnaturally like they'd been pumped and dropped into place.

The Baby.

It stood there—not moving.

And then—it charged.

Its footsteps didn't just pound the ground—they seemed to crush the air itself.

Paving stones shattered. Power poles trembled.

Dathweet:

"RUN!"

They bolted, veering left into a narrow alleyway.

But The Baby didn't slow down—it smashed through a brick wall like it was paper, as if its only goal was to crush everything between it and them.

Dathweet yanked Lyun around a crumbling plaza—at the center stood a stone gate marked with a glowing spiral.

The moment they stepped forward—light flared up. The symbol ignited.

The game had begun.

But Lyun didn't make it in.

CRASH!

Dathweet turned—The Baby had rammed straight into Lyun's stomach.

She was hurled sideways. Blood spilled across the stone tiles.

But The Baby didn't move further.

It just… stood there.

It looked at Dathweet—then bowed its massive head like a child denied its favorite toy.

Then turned away and vanished into the fog.

Dathweet (screaming):

"LYUN!!!"

His fists clenched. The spiral gate's light wrapped around him—pulling him through.

The next game had opened.

⸻

Transition – Into Echo Bet

Dathweet was transported.

The sensation of free-fall lasted less than a second—then light exploded around him.

When he opened his eyes, he was inside a suspended glass room floating among the clouds.

Outside: nothing but thick white mist—no horizon, no ground, no sky.

At the center of the room: a dark wooden table.

On it: a vintage silver tea set.

Across from him: a man already waiting.

The man wore a gray pinstripe suit with a high collar, buttoned perfectly. His slicked-back black hair glinted with strands of gold at the tips.

His face was sharply carved. High nose bridge, lips curled in a polite smile—but his eyes… were cold.

The kind of cold that comes after seeing too much to care anymore.

He raised the teacup gently. Sipped. Set it down.

Salvador:

"I just finished watching the chase back there. Gotta say… you've got presence.

You must be tired, huh?"

Dathweet, still dazed, collapsed into the chair, breathing heavily.

Salvador (leaning back with a smirk):

"The girl you love… just got skewered.

Not even a little sad?"

Dathweet (flatly):

"You want me to cry?"

Salvador:

"Just teasing.

I must say, you've grown sharper without Hakan constantly hovering around.

Colder, more rational… smarter.

Seems pain really is the cost of clarity."

Dathweet (eyes darkening):

"I became twisted because of Koju.

But yeah, pain does clear the fog."

Salvador nodded, folding his hands.

Salvador:

"I am that part of you.

The loneliness, the shadows—willing to do anything just to stop hurting.

And because of that… we think the best ending is to die.

You, me—we'd both feel peace if it all just vanished.

No more pretending.

No more expectations.

No more… memories."

Dathweet:

"You sound like you're pitying yourself."

Salvador (calmly):

"No. Just offering an exit."

Dathweet (exhaling, leaning back):

"Pathetic. Thinking that dying is freedom—when it's really just giving up.

You really think you can kill me?"

Salvador smiled.

He raised his hand casually—like brushing away invisible dust in the air.

Behind him, a wooden box clicked open.

A glass wall hummed faintly—then slid open like a hidden mechanism.

From within, six black cards floated out—edges lined with faint silver, each card engraved with the number 1, 2, or 3.

Three cards hovered behind Salvador.

Three drifted to Dathweet's side—suspended mid-air like players waiting to be chosen.

Silence fell.

Only the soft light from the ceiling shone down—illuminating the two men, and the six floating numbers like fates waiting to be flipped.

Salvador (voice low, calm):

"It's not me who'll kill you.

It's you who will lose… to yourself."

He lifted his teacup again, eyes studying his opponent.

Salvador:

"You know, I've always loved simple games…

But they have to be deep enough to make you second-guess everything."

He stepped toward the rear—where the six cards hovered in two rows.

Their backs showed only numbers.

Salvador:

"This is Echo Bet.

We each start with ten Echo—think of them as life points.

No weapons. No violence.

Just guessing… and bluffing."

He brushed his fingers over the cards.

Salvador:

"Each turn, the two of us will simultaneously pick one card — it can be card number 1, 2, or 3 behind us. Each card holds a real number, kept hidden. The player will place the card on the table and declare a number — called the 'damage value.' You can tell the truth… or you can lie."

He smiled lightly.

Salvador:

"The other person must guess whether that number is real or a bluff. If they guess correctly — the opponent loses that amount of Echo. If they guess wrong — you lose Echo. But… there's one important rule…"

He raised a finger.

Salvador:

"If both of us are down to exactly one Echo… then bluffing becomes meaningless. At that point, to end the game, the attacker must declare the exact number written on their card. If the guess is wrong — the turn passes to the other player. And so on… until someone guesses correctly — and wins."

He turned back to Dathweet, eyes like someone who had played this game a hundred times before.

Salvador:

"That's it. The fewer the cards, the more it's about the mind. And if you want to live… you'd better start using yours."

Dathweet narrowed his eyes, eyeing Salvador warily.

Dathweet:

"Feels like that game in the cabin in the woods… But this time, more low-key, huh?"

Salvador smiled, gently swirling the teacup in his hand.

Salvador:

"Yes. I created this one. I don't like things overly complicated — I only need one blow, but one strong enough to tear through your shell."

Dathweet leaned back in his chair, hand clenched. He was still exhausted from the earlier chase, but his gaze was sharp again — like a blade.

Dathweet:

"I've only lost one bet in my life. Just once. And I nearly died for it. You think you'll be the second?"

Salvador:

"I don't think. I know."

He stood up, walking slowly toward the table — like a dancer who knew every beat of the floor.

Salvador:

"I'm not some fragment of your psyche at the bottom of a well. Not some groaning echo. I am the whole. I'm the sun, the abyss, the shadow that's followed you ever since you first learned to think. Which means…"

He tilted his head, smile thinner than a razor's edge.

Salvador:

"I may very well understand you… better than you do yourself."

Dathweet stayed silent. No rebuttal. No smile. He simply placed his hand over one of the three cards behind him.

The wager began.

Dathweet went first.

No need to ask, no hesitation. He drew a card from behind his back.

Thin, silver-edged — the card gave off a dull metallic glow. He glanced at it for exactly two seconds — then pushed it to the center of the table.

His voice was deep, sharp, and cold.

Dathweet:

"Three."

Salvador tilted his head slightly, as if listening to an opening symphony.

He didn't look at the card. He looked at the man sitting across from him.

His gaze pierced through Dathweet's skin, peeling back every layer of expression.

Salvador (smiling):

"Interesting. No shaking. No tensing. Voice steady. Eyes not shifting. A… very clean performance."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting on his lips as if savoring a wine.

Salvador:

"But unfortunately…"

He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"You're no rookie. You know that if you shake, you're caught. If you tense, you're suspicious. So, you chose… emptiness. Like someone in full control."

He stared deep into Dathweet's eyes.

There was no killing intent — no anxiety.

Only calm — like the game wasn't worth losing anything over.

Salvador (in a lower tone):

"You said 'three.' If it really is three… that's bold. High risk. But your eyes — they don't say that. You're not smiling with them. Only your lips moved. Your pupils… dilated."

He paused.

His finger tapped lightly on the table.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Like the steady pulse of a therapist diagnosing a lie.

Salvador:

"So, eliminate. Not three. Can't be one either — too risky for a first move. Which leaves only…"

He pointed straight at Dathweet, a wide grin on his face.

Salvador:

"Two."

Dathweet didn't react. Just blinked — steadily.

Salvador (nodding):

"You're bluffing. Pretending it's three — but it's actually two."

Dathweet (even-toned):

"You calling?"

Salvador:

"I am."

A pale blue light appeared on the side.

The scoreboard lit up:

Echo

Dathweet: 7

Salvador: 10

Dathweet lost three points.

He bowed his head slightly, hand resting on the table, showing no signs of protest.

Salvador smiled, lifted his teacup, and gently spun it.

Salvador:

"I told you already… I'm the embodiment of everything you've tried to hide. Even the way you sit — that comes from all the times you were judged. Don't be surprised I can read you. I am you."

He leaned aside.

From behind him, a silver tray floated in — as if gliding through the air.

On it, a misty porcelain teacup, steaming gently, landed in front of Dathweet.

Salvador (warmly, like a host at a literary gathering):

"Drink. Even in Noesis… taste still works, if you still retain some 'humanity.' Relax for a bit, then we'll continue."

Dathweet said nothing. He picked up the teacup — the porcelain still slightly warm.

But that wasn't what made him pause.

He brought it to his nose…

No scent.

He frowned. Lifted it to his lips and drank a large sip.

The liquid touched his tongue…

But there was no taste. No bitterness. No sweetness. Nothing familiar.

Like drinking something… invisible.

He set the cup down.

Dathweet (voice low, slightly hoarse):

"…No smell. No taste."

Salvador smiled, pouring himself another cup.

Salvador:

"Then that's two you've lost already: smell and taste. You did lose three Echo after all. Seems about right."

Dathweet looked at his palm, then lightly touched the table — he still had touch.

He took a deep breath — the distant tick of a clock echoed faintly in his ears — hearing was still there.

Only the smell and taste of the tea… were gone.

Dathweet (speaking slowly):

"…Echo here isn't just blood or score. It's something… in me."

Salvador nodded, like a teacher pleased with the right answer.

Salvador:

"That's the essence of this game. The more you lose — the less you remain. Every layer inside you… everything that makes you 'you'… gets stripped away bit by bit. Until…"

Dathweet (cutting in):

"Until there's nothing left."

He looked at the cup again. Then nodded slightly.

Dathweet:

"Enough. Let's keep playing."

Salvador's turn.

He didn't rush. His fingers spun the card smoothly between the knuckles, like a seasoned gambler enjoying the game more than trying to win it.

He lifted his head, glancing at Dathweet through half-lidded eyes.

Salvador (smirking):

"Let's see… I choose number three.

Ah no, wait…"

He paused for a moment, eyes drifting somewhere distant.

Salvador:

"…Actually, never mind. Let's go with three."

Dathweet narrowed his eyes.

Dathweet:

"You bluffing?"

Salvador tilted his head, as if surprised by such an early question.

Then he smiled faintly — a ghost of a smile, like he'd heard this line a hundred times before.

Salvador:

"Lying? Why don't you consider… that I want you to think I'm bluffing?

So you'll guess wrong."

His voice was soft, but that last line hit like a quiet punch.

Salvador:

"Have you ever thought… maybe everything you're 'reading' from me is exactly what I intend for you to read?"

Dathweet stayed quiet for a beat, then answered in a low tone:

Dathweet:

"Yeah… you feel like you're already inside my head."

Salvador reached for the teacup — the silver spoon tapping gently against porcelain, then stirring slowly.

The sound was small, but it scraped the air like cold metal against a nerve.

Salvador (voice low, dreamy):

"You know… others in different nodes have faced me too.

Because they believed… I was being too lenient with you.

That someone like you… deserved a much crueler death."

Dathweet tilted his head.

Dathweet:

"And… you beat them all?"

Salvador:

"I did.

They were all confident. Cold. Thought they 'understood' me.

Thought they could read body language… movement… micro-expressions."

He looked straight into Dathweet's eyes.

Salvador:

"But in the end… I was the one who walked away from the table.

They were the ones slamming fists in frustration."

Dathweet narrowed his eyes, thoughts spiraling like a whirlpool:

(He said three… but hesitated. If it really were three, why the delay? But if he's a psychological expert… then the hesitation was planted — to make me think it's a low card. If so, then he's telling the truth. But if he knows I'd think that… then maybe it is a bluff.

Damn it—what level of mind game is this?)

He felt like a moth caught in swirling flame — one wrong move, and another part of him would burn away.

He glanced at Salvador's eyes.

And at that moment — his pupils twitched. Fast. A reflex.

But before he could analyze it, Salvador casually brushed his hair back. Smooth. Natural.

But Dathweet knew — it was a fake tell, meant to throw off the read.

Salvador took a sip of tea and gave a soft chuckle.

Salvador:

"You know… people usually tell the truth on the first round.

Only bluff addicts like to open with a hard swing."

He stopped — still smiling faintly.

But the lack of closure made the words echo louder in Dathweet's head.

(He's planting an idea — that this one's real.)

Dathweet spoke, his voice tight:

Dathweet:

"You're… telling the truth, aren't you?"

A flicker — just for a second — crossed Salvador's face.

A hesitation. Maybe static. Or maybe real.

Dathweet wasn't sure. But—

He stared into Salvador's eyes — the pupils twitched again. A slight bounce.

Dathweet clenched his fist:

Dathweet:

"My guess… is that you're telling the truth."

The board flared. A sharp metallic ping. Text shifted:

[Dathweet – Echo: 5]

Silence.

Complete, suffocating silence.

The world fell quiet, like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Dathweet blinked — but heard nothing except the pounding of his own heart.

Slow. Heavy. Muffled.

He turned, startled — and saw Salvador sipping tea, calm as ever.

Salvador (smiling):

"Don't mind the pupil twitch. Just adrenaline. You excite me."

Dathweet gritted his teeth.

The sudden loss of hearing made him reel, his body swaying.

Ears ringing, balance off, stomach tightening — nausea creeping in.

Salvador tilted his head gently, voice steady like a classical record:

Salvador:

"Relax… You're not completely deaf.

You'll still hear my voice — enough to keep playing."

Dathweet pressed both hands to the table — sweat forming between his fingers.

Echo: halved.

His hearing was drowned out, like he was swimming in the thick waters of his own brain.

Across the table, Salvador remained composed — stirring his tea with that thin silver spoon.

Salvador:

"I told you… Death can be light as a feather.

But the slow erosion of your senses — that's what drives men mad."

Dathweet breathed deep. No reaction.

He couldn't let himself get pulled into another mind trick.

On the side board, cold lines of text glowed:

[Dathweet – Echo: 5]

[Salvador – Echo: 10]

The air felt like melted lead.

This glass room wasn't a game chamber anymore — it was a sealed execution box,

where every word, every glance… could be a knife hidden under silk.

Dathweet looked up.

His eyes darkened.

He'd let Salvador lead too deep.

Dathweet (low):

"My turn… next."

Salvador smirked.

Nodded.

As if he'd been waiting for that very moment.

— End of Chapter —