Chapter 7: The Game Begins (Part 1)

In the yard of Richter's mansion, Butler Konrad Adlerfürst and Miss Jenny Nachtdorn were engaged in a fierce fight involving sabers. Ever since she lost her mother, Jenny had sworn revenge—a vow that drove her to take martial arts training early on. Her main instructor had been none other than Konrad, who, to best serve his employer in all regards, had dedicated considerable time to mastering various fighting styles.

The butler thrust forward, and Jenny blocked with a hanging parry while stepping backward. Their forms were elegant and smooth, honed over years of practice. Every parry, every riposte, every cut, and every thrust were timed perfectly, showcasing their honed skill. Jenny used her poker face and minimalistic movement to strike deceptively, just as Konrad had taught her. She varied the timing of each strike, slowing down and speeding up at just the right moments to mislead her opponent.

Jenny knew that the key to winning battles was to deceive the enemy. There was an eastern manuscript she had heard of that said, "All warfare is based on deception."

Konrad had fought alongside—and against—Jenny for years now and was in harmony with her deceptive strikes. He responded with cautious but deliberate counterstrikes, rarely falling for her feints. They moved like dancers, perfectly in sync, their blades ringing out in the crisp morning air.

Yet there was one difference: age. As the duel wore on, Jenny's youthful endurance began to show. Sweat dripped down her brow, but she pushed through, focusing on her breathing and the rhythm of the fight. Step by step, she pressed her advantage, forcing Konrad back until, with a final feint and a swift cut, she disarmed him, sending his saber clattering to the ground.

Konrad was breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his brow. "It would appear," he said, shaking out his aching hand, "that I can barely keep up with you anymore, Lady Nachtdorn."

Jenny lowered her blade, chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. She smiled softly, bowing with a flourish. "I had the best teacher," she said, meeting his gaze. 

"Indeed," Dravisha purred from the sidelines, breaking the tension. "What marvellous form you two have. Those deceptive strikes will work excellently when enhanced with a bit of shadow magic, my little witch." Her amber eyes gleamed as she nodded thoughtfully, already planning new lessons tailored to Jenny's capabilities.

"Sir Richter has a present for you, Lady Nachtdorn," the butler announced. "I would like to present it as a final reward for your mastery at the sword."

He led them to a small chamber adorned with polished wooden panels and faintly glowing sconces that cast flickering light across the walls. Weapons lined the racks—each meticulously crafted—but one stood apart, draped in a pristine white blanket embroidered with intricate silver runes.

"Lady Nachtdorn," the butler intoned, gesturing toward the covered sword. "Please, reveal your reward."

Jenny approached slowly, anticipation building with each step. She reached out, fingers brushing against the cool fabric of the blanket before pulling it away. As the cloth slid off, sunlight streaming through the high windows caught the blade, sending shimmering reflections dancing across the room.

It was a Dussack saber with a shiny, polished blade. The black and silver hilt was protective with a shell guard and an integrated thumb ring, allowing for effective slicing cuts. It had a false edge which enhanced the saber's versatility, enabling nimble reverse cuts and smooth thrusts. The false edge allowed Jenny to deliver good hooking cuts or sneaky upward cuts to exposed hands and wrists.

Jenny gripped the handle firmly, sliding her thumb through the ring as she tested the balance of the blade. The sword was well balanced, slightly more weighted towards the tip for devastating cuts. After practicing a few guards and cuts, she sheathed the sword in its scabbard and turned to Konrad. "It feels amazing. Thank you."

The butler beamed with pride. "We had it made exactly for your style, height, and strength. Sir Richter wished to honour your dedication and skill. He believes this saber will serve you well in the trials ahead."

"Cute gift," Dravisha said while approaching the sword. "Did I get something too?"

Jenny shook her head while Konrad looked for a polite way to say no. 

"I didn't realize you were interested in having a weapon," the butler finally said.

"I don't," Dravisha said. "I just don't like feeling left out."

Jenny facepalmed.

Later in the afternoon, Dravisha and Jenny were once again in the Crimson Paradise, this time in the VIP lounge. The place had a low ceiling with dim lighting. The felt table in the center was surrounded by six plush seats. A private bar was at the back of the room with red leather stools. Jenny and the other contestants were gathered around the felt table, while Dravisha and the other onlookers were at the bar. 

Across the table from Jenny was her father, Aldric, in the Small Blind Chair. He had a weird patch on his ear. His clothes weren't as immaculate as they used to be. The suit hadn't quite matched his pants, and the colour palette was off. Jenny surmised that the Nachtdorn estate was in dire straits. Not that she cared.

Her eyes shifted to the others. In the Big Blind Chair was a man with long, curly silver hair and high cheekbones, dressed impeccably in a white-gold suit. Jenny mentally dubbed him "Silver Locks." Next to him sat a rotund figure with a thick, coarse brown beard, his burgundy attire giving him a rugged air. He became "Big Beard" in her mind. Beside him, a middle-aged woman caught Jenny's attention; her blond hair was twisted into an elegant updo secured by an ornate clip, and her shimmering green dress paired with pearl earrings exuded sophistication. Jenny labelled her "Blondie." Finally, there was a man in a slick black suit, his dark grey ponytail and neatly trimmed mustache lending him an air of calculated precision. To Jenny, he was simply "Ponytail."

All of them had teased her earlier about her age, mocking her as the youngest—and newest—player at the table. But Jenny welcomed their underestimation. Let them think she was out of her depth. It would only make her eventual victory sweeter.

Just as the dealer began shuffling the cards, the door creaked open, drawing everyone's attention. Two men strode in, their uniforms unmistakable: Inquisitors. They moved with arrogant confidence, their boots clicking against the floor as if claiming ownership of the space. Jenny's heart rate shot up. Memories of the fire resurfaced, of her mother's scream. She clutched the edge of the table.

"Ladies and gentlemen," one of the Inquisitors said smoothly, his voice calm but commanding, "please don't mind the intrusion. No need to worry. We're not here on official business. Just think of us as any other spectators and enjoy the game."

Despite his reassurances, the tension in the room was palpable. Jenny forced herself to breathe deeply, reaching for the brandy she had ordered earlier. She took a large sip, the liquid burning her throat as it settled uneasily in her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the other guests exchanging uneasy glances. Especially her father, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers brushed against the edge of his patch. She had heard rumours from Klaus that Aldric was somehow indebted to the church. They must have been true after all. People on the streets they talk, and while most of it is unreliable hearsay, some of it is pretty good information.

The buy-in was one hundred fifty gold marks, with the grand prize totalling nine hundred. During the first few rounds, Jenny bet low, observing the players carefully. They were seasoned gamblers, none making reckless moves or revealing obvious tells. Silver Locks played loose and aggressively, pushing chips into the pot with bold confidence. Big Beard, on the other hand, folded strategically, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But it was Aldric who caught her off guard—he seemed to anticipate the others' hands almost too well.

Her gaze flickered between Aldric and the dealer. There it was: a fleeting glance, a barely perceptible nod. Suspicion flared, and she focused her supernatural senses on the deck. Faint etchings marked each card; no one would be able to see them unless they were close and paid a lot of attention. To her, it was glaringly obvious. With a subtle smirk, she began categorizing the cards by their markings, soon deciphering every hand at the table.