Chapter 1: Wanna Play Roulette? The Russian Kind?

“Hey, look over there!”

Sig’s shoulder was bumped by his companion, and he followed the direction the man was pointing.

The bar’s dim amber light reflected hazily off the wooden tabletop.

That scruffy, bearded sailor obviously wasn’t asking him to admire the lighting.
He wanted him to look at the woman sitting at the table.

Strictly speaking—she was a nun.

It was pouring outside, raindrops drumming against the bar’s glass windows.
The nun sat right by the window as if admiring the rain, and even the black-and-white habit couldn’t hide the curves beneath.

Sig never understood what was so worth watching in that endless curtain of rain.
In this season, Ingrey City was always drenched in gloomy weather.
Anyone who lived here had long grown sick of it.

“Why don’t you go chat her up?”

His companion poked his shoulder again with a finger thicker than a carrot.

“Chat her up?
Come on, she’s a nun.”

Sig let out a helpless sigh and set down his glass.
The half-filled amber liquid swayed.

“You gotta pick the right target for flirting, yeah?”

“Tch, any nun who sets foot in a bar—how proper could she really be?”

The other man pressed on, full of mischief.
These sailors spent nine months a year at sea… the only females they saw were the fish in the ocean.

In a season where nonstop rain made sailing impossible, hunting for fun in a bar became one of their rare entertainments.

“If you wanna go, then go.”

Sig shook his head and refilled his glass.

“Then how about a little bet?”

But his companion very precisely targeted Sig’s weakness:
“I bet that nun isn’t a proper nun.”

The word bet instantly lit Sig up.

Unlike the rest of the rough crew, he wasn’t obsessed with hitting on women.
What he was obsessed with… was gambling.

“Fine.
I bet she is a proper nun.”

Sig raised a middle finger at his friend — among crude men, that meant “OK, I’m in.”

He picked up his drink and walked toward the nun by the window.

The dim light set the silver cross on her neck aglow, tinting it a warm amber.
A glass of untouched liquor sat before her — more like a polite purchase to stay indoors until the rain passed.

Sig already felt confident about winning this bet.

“Miss Nun, may I buy you a drink?”

Sig tried to look as friendly as possible.
If she refused, that meant he had already won.

There was no prize at stake — winning itself was the prize.
For him, there were only two words that mattered: gamble and win.

“Sorry.
I don’t like drinking.”

She turned toward him.
Under sharp eyeliner rested eyes as blue as starlight.

Sig was no poet — he couldn’t describe beauty in elegant words.
He could only think one thing:
Those eyes look like the night sky I see from the deck on a clear night.

“But…”

Her tongue brushed lightly against her lips.
“I’m very interested in your bet.”

A glint of silver flashed between the slit of her habit.

“Bet?”

Sig scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
“What bet?
I’m… kinda not following.”

Had she heard them?

“You.
And your companion.”

The nun propped her chin, gaze drifting toward the bearded sailor.
“You were betting whether I’m a proper nun.”

When she said it, something wild flickered in her eyes.

“So… are you a nun or not?”

Since he was already exposed, Sig didn’t bother hiding it.
He didn’t care what labels she slapped on him.
He only cared about the gamble.

“Bet with me, and I’ll tell you.”

She smiled — bright and dazzling.

“What do you want to bet on?”

Sig sat down across from her, slipping into the posture of a seasoned gambler.
“Baccarat?
Dice?
Blackjack?”

A true gambler could list games like breathing.

“This one.”

From the slit of her habit, she drew a revolver.
With a flick, she popped the cylinder — five rounds clattered onto the table.

“In my homeland, this is a very popular game.”

Her long black hair spilled like a waterfall as she spoke.

Sig froze, stunned.

Judging by her face and attire, she should have been a gentle, devout believer brimming with compassion.

Who would’ve expected her to pull out a gun from under that holy garment?

She spun the cylinder into a silver blur, then clacked it shut.

It was a large silver revolver, twin barrels engraved with intricate rose patterns, and an ivory grip gleaming like bleached bone.

Judging by the barrel length alone, its firepower would be no joke.

Clearly, this weapon wasn’t designed for fighting people.
What designer would be insane enough to give a high-caliber revolver two barrels, firing two bullets with one trigger pull?
The recoil alone would shatter a human wrist.

“There’s one bullet in the cylinder.”

She set the gun on the table and slid it toward him.
“We take turns aiming at our heads and pulling the trigger.
Whoever splatters their brains loses.”

Sig swallowed hard.
He lived for gambling, but that didn’t mean he was ready to gamble his life.

She saw the hesitation — and mocked him.

“Or… you can just admit defeat.”

Admit defeat?

Sig’s throat tightened.
Yes, he could admit defeat.
Anyone with a brain wouldn’t gamble with death in a bar.

But…

His gaze fell back on the gleaming barrel.

Admitting defeat — for a gambler — was humiliation.

His heart pounded.
Heat crawled up his cheeks.
A wild thrill surged through his blood.

“You first?
Or me?”

Her voice tunneled into his ears.
The noise of the bar seemed to fade away until only he, the gun, and this nun remained.

No one else noticed that two people by the window were about to gamble with their lives.

“I’ll go first!”

Blood-shot eyes blazing, Sig grabbed the revolver and pressed it to his temple.

People believed gamblers relied on blind luck — but a real gambler hunted for the sliver of certainty hidden within uncertainty.

There was only one bullet in six chambers.
Six-to-one odds of dying.

Most thought being first was advantageous: once the first player fired safely, the second would face one-in-five odds.

But actually —
The first player not dying was the precondition.
The probability of surviving was 5/6,
and the second player’s death chance was (1/5) × (5/6) = 1/6.
Still one-in-six.

So going first held no advantage.

But…

Sig closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Click.

The hammer dropped on an empty chamber.

He exhaled sharply, sweat beading across his forehead.
Luck was on his side — the bullet wasn’t his.

“You’re definitely a qualified gambler.”

He opened his eyes — the nun was smiling at him with genuine appreciation.

He had chosen correctly: 5/6 survival.
Which meant 1/5 remained for her.

A gambler couldn’t control everything — but he could bet on survival.

He slid the revolver back to her.
For this round, luck’s scales leaned toward him.

“You’re not unlucky enough to win the jackpot on the first try.”

She raised the gun, aiming at her own temple.

“There are five empty chambers.
You used one.
Four remain.”
Her lips curled.
“So, Mr. Sig — what’s the secret to a good drama?”

Mr. Sig?

He never told her his name.

This nun…

Click.

Empty again.

“Timing.”

“What is courage?”

Click.

Again, empty.

“To remain graceful under pressure.”

“So… who will be the winner?”

Click.

“I’ll be the winner.”

Her smile turned feral — beautifully insane.

Four empty chambers — three already spent.
Only one left.

A 50–50 chance.

Cold sweat drenched Sig’s back.
His pupils reddened as he lifted the gun to his own head…
but his finger froze.

“You’re scared.”

She rested her chin on her hand, watching him tremble, eyes full of amusement.

Suddenly — he pointed the gun at her.

This nun was definitely not normal!

He pulled the trigger.

Click.

The hammer struck air again.

“Looks like the heavens are on my side.”

With a sudden motion, she reached under her skirt and pulled out another gun.

BANG!

The hammer struck the primer.
Gunpowder ignited.
The bullet blasted forth.

It buried itself in Sig’s skull.
Blood splattered.

He died.
Completely and utterly.

A meaningless life lost for a meaningless gamble.

But…

Was that really the truth?

From the ruined skull, wisps of black smoke curled upward.

“Finally took the bait.”

The nun smiled softly, gun now aimed at the gathering darkness.

A demon —
More precisely, a demon that had possessed Sig.

It inflated the host’s desires — his obsession with gambling — until he could no longer reject any bet, even one that cost his life.

Demons fed on desires and souls, until the host became nothing but a shell to house the creature — a demon walking in human flesh.

Sig had been doomed the moment possession began.

BANG!

A silver bullet tore through the demon’s vaporous form like sunlight ripping apart shadow.
With a shrill scream, it dissipated into curling white mist.

Crk-crk-crk…

Suddenly, the whole scene shattered like glass — as if someone smashed an illusion with a giant hammer.

When vision returned to normal, the patrons finally noticed the blood everywhere… and Sig’s corpse sprawled on the floor.

As for the nun — she had vanished without anyone realizing when she left.

Only a single empty glass remained on the table… bearing a faint print of her lips.