Final round. Viola stepped in herself, a blade of frost-lit nerve, and pointed her challenge at the Little Moon Sage.

If she knew who stood before her, she wouldn’t fly like a moth into a lantern.

Her road had narrowed to a single-plank bridge over a dark river.

The props came up fast, like a tray in a temple rite.

A plate heaped into a small mountain of copper coins, dull as autumn leaves.

The rules were simple. Use ears like nets and eyes like hawks. Judge if the coins in your foe’s hand were odd or even. Even if you saw nothing, there was still a coin-flip chance.

Viola chose this because she had a way to tilt the scales, like loading dice behind a silk fan.

Her heart burned to win; the heat came first, then her hands moved. She seized the first turn without a word.

She slapped the table. Force ran through wood like thunder under skin. The coins leapt up like startled sparrows, spinning as they fell.

In that blur, she snatched coin after coin mid-fall, speed so sharp it left ghostly afterimages, like dragonflies skimming a pond. When the rest clattered down, she smiled, showed both hands for a breath, then flicked with her thumbs. Coins arced up like fireflies and dropped back into her palms.

She juggled like a street acrobat under lantern light. Coins flipped and rolled, left to right, right to left, bright fish crossing a stream. Now and then she shot one out on purpose; some bounced off the table and swam back to her hand, others buried into the wood like hidden darts, metal tearing grain with a crisp cry.

The fireworks weren’t empty. It was a fog-draping trick, a reed-woven net for the eyes, dragging the opponent’s gaze and pressing their mind, so at the final guess, doubt would bite like frost.

That doubt was a door crack, and Viola’s hand was already there like a knife.

She wouldn’t have risked it without near-certain odds. Her secret art, Immortal Crossing the Bridge: if the opponent hesitated and by chance guessed right, she, before opening her hand, would use her ring finger and a cover of motion to drop one coin to the floor. It would vanish into the spill from the plate like a leaf into a pile.

So if she took the first move, she could chain three wins, no suspense, like dominoes falling.

Cheating that no one sees isn’t cheating. That was the street’s rain-washed truth.

After the flourish, Viola knew she still held five coins, as clear as a bead on an abacus.

She smiled, pushed her clenched fist toward the Little Moon Sage like offering a sealed scroll. “Go on. Odd or even?”

The Little Moon Sage clapped, as if savoring a good opera scene. Her smile held a crescent’s secret, and her rhythm rose and fell like waves.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Impressive. Truly impressive.” The praise felt like grit in Viola’s ears.

“Cut the chatter. Your turn.” Her temper flared first, then her words hit like stones. “Odd or even?”

The Little Moon Sage let her smile fade. She stepped in, face calm as a still pond. She tapped the back of Viola’s hand, then tilted an ear, listening like to wind through pines. At last she spoke, mock-mystic:

“…I’m going to guess you’ve got no coins at all.”

Viola blinked, then almost laughed. Putting on airs, this one. Possessed by her own act.

“You won’t pick odd or even. You’re guessing I caught nothing?” She smiled, teeth like a knife’s edge. A free win delivered by a paper crane.

You don’t refuse a victory that walks to your door.

She shook her head and snorted, a cold puff in winter air. “Smart, aren’t you.”

Before the Sage could back out, she opened her hand.

This is a sure win. Checkmate before the first move. How do you even lose?

She knew she’d kept five coins. With hands honed for years, there was no room for error.

But as her palm opened, her face froze, ice sealing a pond.

The five coins lost their shapes, a castle of sand collapsing. They became a spill of glittering copper dust. It slipped through her fingers in a bright waterfall and scattered over the table like dawn on frost.

“What the—what is this…”

Her composure cracked like thin ice. What the hell is going on?!

She shot a look at the Little Moon Sage. That serene face said it all: a trick behind a silk sleeve.

Hands tucked, the Little Moon Sage spoke slow, like drifting cloud. “See? I guessed right. I knew you’d crush them all.”

Viola almost coughed blood. Heat steamed up her neck.

Who the hell can crush copper into powder barehanded? That was your trick! And you pin it on me? You—!

She flung the copper dust to the floor like ashes from a brazier. She pointed, words spitting sparks. “You cheated… you—”

BloodRose, seated behind her, couldn’t watch this hotheaded farce. If she can turn coins to powder under your eyelids, grinding you to paste would take a blink.

Why won’t this kid get it?

BloodRose sprang up and pinned Viola, eyes on the Sage’s face, smile pasted on like lacquer. “Ha… haha… she’s young and foolish… A loss is a loss. She can’t take it. Don’t mind her, don’t mind her… I declare you the winners! Three straight! Welcome, our new honored patron! If you need anything, say the word. If not, let’s all call it a day…”

Seeing BloodRose unexpectedly sincere, Lingcai weighed a beat, then spoke plain, her voice steady as a bell. “Here’s the thing. We’re trying to find the lord of Sata City. There’s an outbreak in the city. We need money and hands. We hope to find the lord and ask for his support.”

At that, BloodRose’s face went dark like a stormbank. “Don’t know!”

Even as she blurted it, Viola butted in, words like pebbles tossed to spite. “The City Lord? He’s joined the church. Most of his money’s already donated to our church. You want cash from him? Fat chance.”

Lingcai blinked. “Huh? What church…?”

BloodRose yanked Viola back by the collar and clapped a hand over her mouth. She gave Lingcai’s Sage a mortified smile. “Misunderstanding! Misunderstanding! We do legitimate business! We’re a proper cult!—ugh, what am I saying!”

Realizing she’d slipped, she slapped herself twice, then forced a grin. “No, no—we’re properly preaching! The money’s for accumulating good karma! We don’t ask lightly! No scams or abductions! Nothing against heaven and earth! All voluntary!”

The Little Moon Sage had already pieced it together. Hands behind her back, she strolled the main hall like walking through bamboo shade, then closed her eyes and addressed Lingcai. “Disciple. They say they want no fame, no profit, and take money only to sow good karma. Sounds lovely. Shall we let them go today?”

Catching the tone, Lingcai followed her lead, voice smooth as silk. “I think, since it’s all for good works, we should let it go today.”

BloodRose finally exhaled, a long breath like a leaking bellows. “We won’t see you out!”

But Lingcai didn’t move. She stepped forward and held out her hand, palm up like a quiet bowl.

BloodRose’s breath hitched. “…What else do you want?”

“Money,” Lingcai said, serious as falling snow. “Aren’t you accumulating good karma? There’s a plague in the city. Hand out the money to help the sick, and you’ll pile up great merit.”

“You—! Shameless— I’ll fight you—!”

Viola never saw this turn coming. Eyes wide, she lunged, claws out like a cornered cat. BloodRose locked her down with one arm, plugged her mouth with the other, and answered Lingcai in a tone that tasted of blood and salt. “Fine, fine, fine… We’ll give. We’ll definitely give…”

“Remember to give it all. No cap,” Lingcai said, striking while the iron was red.

BloodRose’s face crumpled, teary without tears. “Fine, fine… It’s all yours… You can have it all…”