Chapter 200: The Gods Do Not Toss Coins (1)

In the underground hideout at Joyray’s tavern, there were four chairs around the generously sized table, but Keter was the only one seated. To his side sat Joyray, and behind him stood Dork. Facing them were Sword Demon Balt and his student. And lastly, Six stood behind, quietly observing it all. It was a truly bizarre gathering.

Gulp.

Someone swallowed nervously. It was Dork. He was afraid of Balt—his draping pale blue-white hair, unreadable black eyes, and lifeless lips. Balt casually rested his hand on the hilt at his waist, seeming unguarded at a glance.

My heart hurts even though I’m standing behind Big Brother.

Fearing a predator was a prey’s instinct. And Balt, the apex predator, instilled terror in everyone around him simply by existing in the same space.

Damn it... I thought I’d gotten stronger.

Balt’s gaze was unreadable, but it was obvious who he was focused on: Keter and no one else. Even though Dork knew that, he couldn’t stop imagining Balt’s sword being drawn at any moment, slicing open his chest and ripping out his heart.

Thud!

Suddenly, Keter slammed his fist down on the table.

“Balt. How long are you going to keep staring? Didn’t you say the Godfather left a message?”

“Ha... Ha...”

Dork took a deep breath. He had been so overwhelmed by Balt’s pressure, he hadn’t even realized he had stopped breathing.

Th-thank you, Big Brother.

Dork began backing away. Normally, just being in the same space as Balt was unbearable. No, he made sure to avoid him entirely. But after bathing in elixirs and learning the Flying Thunder Sword Technique, Dork had gained confidence. He had even defeated a Master-level opponent, so he thought that maybe it would be okay to be in the same room as Balt. However...

I must have been out of my mind.

That was arrogance and conceit. Realizing this quickly, Dork retreated to stand beside Six, who was standing far from the table.

Perhaps it was Dork stepping back, or maybe it was Keter’s slam on the table, but finally Balt broke the silence.

“Keter. This is the Godfather’s message.”

“Alright.”

“‘I will now make you an offer you cannot refuse.’”

“...”

Keter narrowed his eyes. When he had last visited Liqueur, the Godfather had made him a so-called irrefusable offer, but he had refused.

“Next time we meet, you won’t be able to say no.”

The Godfather was certain that Keter would accept, and a man like him didn’t bluff. So Keter was genuinely curious: what kind of offer could possibly leave him with no choice?

It won’t just be some excuse to kill me. Now I’m really intrigued.

Balt, having opened his mouth at last, didn’t delay.

“Leave Liqueur. And never come back.”

* * *

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Keter drummed his fingers on the table. The tapping had a distinct rhythm.

Tap, ta-tap, tap, ta-tap. Tap!

His eyes, sinking deep into contemplation, were calm as still water, while Dork’s widened in alarm.

That’s his habit when he’s deep in thought. He only does that when he’s seriously torn. I’ve only seen it happen twice in my life!

The first time was when the Godfather’s daughter proposed to him, and the second was when he had to decide whether to descend to the fifth floor of Liqueur’s underground labyrinth.

He rejected the proposal and gave up on the fifth floor too.

In Dork’s view, the Godfather’s offer was annoying but not impossible to accept, especially since Keter had already decided to leave Liqueur. Sure, he had said it felt like home and he wanted to come back eventually, but that was then. This was now.

If the Godfather had told him not to return before, he probably wouldn’t have made that promise to come back at all.

The only reason Keter was still alive after rejecting the previous offer was that the Godfather had no malicious intentions when he asked. But this time, the malice was palpable.

“Never come back.”

He didn’t say what would happen if Keter did, but he wasn’t a fool. It meant he would become the Godfather’s enemy. Becoming his enemy was like becoming the enemy of Liqueur itself, and everyone knew what that meant.

Dork squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his lower lip.

I’m sorry, Big Brother, but no matter how strong we are, we can’t take on Liqueur. That’s guaranteed death.

The Godfather’s proposal was simple, and Keter had nothing to lose. Sure, some leftover belongings, like the office, hadn’t been sorted out, but even that was just around one hundred thousand gold. Of course, that was still a massive sum, but not for Keter. He could make that back any time.

Besides, you always said money is a means, not an end, Big Brother. That’s still true, right?

Dork wasn’t the type to give up without trying. He was a genius among geniuses—even Keter had acknowledged it. He had calculated numerous possibilities in just a few seconds, and in all of them, Keter had zero chance of survival if he refused.

In contrast, accepting the offer would bring only minor consequences, none life-threatening.

Tap... tap... tap.

The tempo of Keter’s tapping slowed. He poured every ounce of focus into uncovering the true intent behind the Godfather’s proposal.

Either the Godfather has a powerful seer, or he’s a prophetic being himself. Either way, he’s probably a god in human form. And I drew the attention of someone like that. He’s playing mind games with me. It would be easy to accept it. I could take this as a final act of mercy since the Godfather liked me. But why would he do that?

He should already know about me leaving and returning to Liqueur. or not. I might come back someday, and he knows that. So why say something so definite like “never?”

There had to be a trap in the offer. Keter didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was there.

I usually act the opposite, so maybe he made an easy offer, assuming I would reject the offer? Maybe he wanted to provoke me so that I would say no? What would he have to gain from that? Is it to justify killing me later? If he’s someone who cares about causality, that wouldn’t be far-fetched. But if that’s the case, then there must be a reason he wants me gone for good. But that reason... I can’t figure it out right now.

Predicting someone’s intent might seem hard, but in truth, it was not. It was like rock-paper-scissors—the options were always fixed. The real challenge was in predicting which one the opponent would throw, and that required a wealth of information and mind games. Sometimes, it was straightforward, such as if Keter usually started with rock, throwing paper would be the logical counter.

However, the thing about information was that it could be exploited. If Keter also knew he usually started with rock and that his opponent knew that, he could throw scissors instead to counter the paper.

Or supposing Keter threw rock the first time, then rock again the second time, and even a third time, what would he throw on the fourth round: rock, paper, or scissors? From an opponent’s perspective, it would be natural to assume he would go for rock again. But in practice, it wasn’t so simple. No one could be sure he would throw rock four times in a row, especially if Keter had lost all three rounds with rock.

At that point, it would seem more likely he would switch things up and throw scissors to avoid losing to paper again. Or at the very least, he may throw scissors to force a tie and read his opponent’s reaction.

Even in a game as seemingly simple as rock-paper-scissors, countless possibilities existed, but the Godfather’s proposal was exceedingly simple.

It’s a yes or no.

If Keter said yes, it would be sweet and easy. If he said no, his future would be filled with molten lava and razor thorns. No sane person would hesitate. Keter also knew that this was an offer that should not be refused.

Tap, ta-tap...

And yet, Keter's contemplation did not end. Even though he acknowledged that accepting the offer was the better choice, he refused to acknowledge it. He had reached a state of doubting even himself—stepping back from the situation to observe it from a third-person perspective. He was no longer Keter, but an outsider watching the psychological battle between the man named Keter and the man known as the Godfather.

There’s no reason to refuse, right? Isn’t this just an overreaction? Maybe the Godfather’s just messing with you? Maybe the whole point was to make you overthink?

That third-party voice offered its analysis. Keter accepted it. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it made sense.

Still... I can’t.

To survive in this world, one had to move in ways the enemy couldn’t predict. To be predictable was to be vulnerable. Being readable was like giving up on life. Even if the enemy was an all-knowing god, one still had to outwit them.

Does the Godfather want me to accept the offer or want me to reject it?

Keter recalled every detail about the Godfather: his expressions, habits, the scent of his cigar smoke, his tone, and even the way his collar folded.

He was always kind, but especially so to me. He even kept quiet about me being able to leave Liqueur. He’s the only one who knows the secret of my birth, and maybe the only one who knew my mother. So what does someone like that truly want from me...

Bang!

Keter slammed his forehead onto the table. When he raised his head, all hesitation was gone from his eyes.

“I’ve decided.”

Gulp.

Dork swallowed so loudly it echoed like thunder.

After five minutes of deep thought, Keter’s conclusion was: “I refuse.”

Dork silently wept, while Joyray swallowed hard.

Only Balt remained unfazed. Instead, he asked the obvious question, “Why? Dying as a noble is surely more honorable than dying a lunatic in Liqueur.”

“Balt—no—piss-pants, listen up. The Godfather set a trap from the start,” Keter said.

“...”

Balt’s brow twitched at the insult, but what followed stopped him from saying anything about it.

“The Godfather doesn’t set traps.”

“People like him pretend not to until it counts. Long story short, the Godfather tricked you in order to trick me. This whole ‘never return to Liqueur’ thing isn’t the real issue.”

“...”

“And honestly, that’s not important. What is important is whether I accept the Godfather’s offer or not.”

“Sounds like you’re just overthinking it.”

“What the Godfather really wanted was to make me accept his offer. But if the offer were too easy, I would grow suspicious or laugh it off as a joke. So he needed the perfect bait. Something hard for others, but easy for me—something that shouldn’t be refused. That happened to be me, never returning to Liqueur.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t know anything, not me.”

Click.

Balt smoothly unsheathed his sword and aimed it at Keter’s throat. Keter recognized it: Blood Sword Dracula, the weapon of an evil god, now in the hands of the Sword Demon.

“Even if you’re right, my task remains the same,” Balt replied.

“Of course. That’s why you came.”

Balt was both the messenger and the executioner.

“Keter. I won’t say I’m giving you another chance. But I will ask you this,” Balt asked, a flicker of anger crossing his usually emotionless eyes. “Do you think I can’t kill you?”

“Not at all. You can kill me.”

“Then why are you still sitting there so calmly?”

“Because it’s not like you.”

“...What?”

“The Godfather didn’t say, ‘If Keter refuses, cut off his head,’ right? Sure, a good subordinate might act on their own to get it done, but you’re not like that.”

“...”

“So let’s settle the issue with what you always do.”

It seemed extremely personal, but everyone knew about Balt’s strange habit.

When Keter suggested that, Balt actually sheathed his sword. From his coat, he pulled out a worn, well-used silver coin. It was so smooth the images had faded, but the front and back were still distinguishable.

“Keter. I’ll let fate decide, just like you wanted.”

“We’re not doing some cliché thing where heads I live and tails I die, right?”

“Tell me what you want then.”

“You’re the one always leaving things to fate. That means that you’ll accept it if it’s fate, right? Even if it’s your life?”

“Of course.”

“Nice answer. Then here’s the game.”

Keter smiled and swept the snacks off the table.

“If it lands on heads, I die. If it’s tails, you do. Oh, you like things crystal clear, right? Then let’s say the loser has to stab themselves in the stomach.”[1]

Some regions found it elegant and noble, but it was just suicide, nothing more. Two big shots of Liqueur were betting their lives on a coin flip.

A coin only had a front and back side, meaning they each had a fifty percent chance of dying. Plus, it was one round; at most, a coin toss took five seconds. Who would throw away a life built over decades in just five seconds? Why would two people with martial mastery at a lever others could only admire and enough wealth to guarantee prosperity for generations gamble their life on a fifty-fifty chance of death? No sane person would ever accept it.

𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

“Good. I accept.”

However, Liqueur was full of lunatics.

1. Keter is talking about seppuku. ☜