The poker table was a sleek, rectangular surface, covered in a vibrant, emerald-green felt that was smooth to the touch. Slightly padded underneath, it offered a comfortable resting place for players' arms. Encircling the perimeter of the table was a cushioned vinyl railing, providing a soft edge for leaning and resting hands, and chairs at the white markings dividing the playing area and denoting each player's spot.

Dasha became the fifth player, taking the southern seat. Across from him was the King of Vikings, ranked number three of the Sapphire Order, Frode. A Viking said to be worth ten thousand men. A king that was said to have lost only a single battle in his life.

At the west, a representative from the Templar Order, Marshal Roland Blackwood. His exploits spoke for themselves; a master strategist, he was one of the Marshals promoted during the Second Heavenly War. His eyes mirrored an eagle’s, bright yellow sclera with black pupils. The red fur cloak, armless black tunic with the glowing scarlet cross, and the black chainmail armour—yes, he was a Marshal, no doubt about it.

On the east was a man Dasha had not expected to meet at all: Master Li Xuanming, leader of the Orthodox Sect. His silver hair, neatly tied back into a traditional bun, framed an aged face. A face that Dasha had seen sketched in over a dozen books.

‘I never thought I would meet him so soon and in a gambling setting as well.’ Hidden behind a mask, Dasha was able to analyze him without notice. ‘This is perfect. I can steal all the knowledge he’s accumulated over the years—or at the very least, a snippet of it.’

Finally, there was the poker dealer: Dionysus, the God of Wine, sitting in the space between Frode and Li Xuanming. In his left hand, a sleazy deck of cards and in his right a loose bottle of wine.

“The contestants are set,” said Dionysus. “Remember, each chip is worth five thousand points—”

“Let’s get on with it,” Frode cut off. “If I can’t fight with my fists, then my cards better cut every inch of that man’s mask.”

“Agreed,” Marshal Roland added. “Wearing that mask in front of me is a disgrace. I would very much like to see who you are.”

“Ooh, you got the smart boy rumbling.” Frode grinned. “It’ll be an ol’ fashioned double-team.”

“Not a problem,” Dasha replied dismissively. “Do what you will.”

The Marshal’s eyes lingered. “It seems unfair that you are granted a mask and we are not.”

“As I said, do as you will. Mask, no mask, it makes no difference. But if you are that afraid, then let me begin by setting the stage: I bid this mask.”

“Oooh~! Agreed, agreed,” said Dionysus. “Can you people match that? I wager that Jack's mask is worth about two hundred million points.”

In the middle of the table, there was a designated area known as the "pot". This space was left open, ready to receive the chips wagered by players, and receive it did. Every single player matched the sum with their chips. The game of poker worth over eight hundred million points began.

Dionysus dealt the cards, giggling as he did so. Afterward, he put out two community cards face-up. Three were face-down.

“Remember, boys. The limit is as high as the sky and we’re doing it like the Americans; Texas hold 'em style. You may begin.”

The cards were flipped.

‘A suited ace and a queen. Hm.’

"Let's skip the raising part, shall we?"

The dealer’s inquiry was met with nods. Everybody had matched. Everybody was participating in this round. From left to right, the community cards were ace of hearts, ten of spades, and three of diamonds.

Dasha glanced at his hand. For him, that meant, ‘Three of a kind.’

Going clockwise, the first turn went to the person next to the dealer, Frode, who slammed his cards face-down. “I raise! Double!”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“I match,” said Li Xuanming.

“Match,” said Dasha.

Lastly, the Marshal, who stopped for an insignificant beat before answering. “Match.”

So now the pot was worth one billion six hundred million points. A game worth playing to the great men sitting.

The fourth community card was revealed: Five of hearts. Dasha’s advantage seemed to be secure with three Aces. He kept an eye on the Marshal. His eyes were difficult to decipher. Was it a good hand? A bad one?

“I raise again! By one hundred million!”

Frode, the cocky Viking, was putting in everything. Li Xuangming didn’t hesitate to raise, so Dasha and Marshal Roland Blackwood did the same. The pot went up to two billion now.

The final community card, the ace of clubs. The tension at the table rose as they mentally added the community cards to their hands.

‘Three aces. A pretty shitty hand.’

A normal person would have backed down. Dasha didn’t. He matched the raise, though Li Xuanming opted to fold. The showdown was between Dasha, Marshal Roland Blackwood, and Frode.

Dasha revealed his three Aces.

Marshal Roland Blackwood unveiled his heart flush, from ten to ace.

And Frode? A full house of jacks.

The Marshal had won—and he had won quite badly.

“It’s my victory.” Marshal Roland stood up and shoved all the chips towards his side. A smile crossed his face as he started stacking his chips. “So? About that mask?”

“Hahaha!” Frode was acting as if he hadn’t lost. He did say it was a double-team. “Too bad! Looks like Hamingja is frowning upon you.”

“The game is not over,” said Dasha. “Isn't that correct, dealer?”

Dionysus hummed. “Mhm, mhm! He is correct. We do rounds of three.”

The Marshal seemed disappointed. He wanted to see Dasha squirm. Too bad.

‘Losing the first round puts me at a massive disadvantage. It doesn’t matter what I do. He is a Marshal funded by the Templars. He won’t bet the mask unless there’s an incentive.’

“I’d like to make a raise, if you don’t mind,” Dasha said, raising an arm. Dionysus cooed and nodded eagerly. “I raise the Ruh al-Qital, woven by the illustrious Al-Khayzuran.”

“What?” Frode slammed a fist, shaking the table. “One of her Five Great Works!? They say it was lost when the wearer ascended!”

“It must have circulated from Heaven down to an auction.” The blearing eyes of the eagle seeped into him. “It would be worth about…four hundred million? I match by betting the mask I just won. Does that suffice? I'm playing right into your hands.”

There it was. The mask was back on the market.

Frode and Li Xuanming decided to match too. The game began anew.

Dasha received a pair of kings from Dionysus. This round, his eyes were locked deep into the Marshal. He was composed but harbored a subtle sense of ambition. A plan was in motion and he met Dasha’s mask head-on. He wasn’t afraid. He was ready.

“I raise,” Dasha declared, to everyone's surprise. “The Seven-league Boots are worth seventy million.”

“I’ve never played a game with such high stakes,” Marshal Roland Blackwood commented. “I match.”

Frode grinned. “Me too!”

“Hrn.” Li Xuanming inhaled sharply. “I fold.”

Such little confidence. Dasha didn’t expect it from a man of his calibre. The order didn’t matter to the dealer, so mind games were easier to conduct. Dasha’s unwavering confidence got to him, and for good reason. The stakes he was raising were obscene. Previously, from a quick look at their chips, they were playing in the millions, not the hundreds of millions.

In the next stage, the flop cards were given: King of hearts, seven of diamonds, and three of clubs.

'Three of a kind, Kings,’ Dasha thought, crossing over his cards with the community cards.

Frode seemed slightly agitated. Dasha wasn’t particularly worried about him. He seemed as predictable as he appeared. It was the Marshal that was stealing his concern.

Dasha raised his cloak this time, citing its value of eighty million. Dionysus accepted it and Marshal Roland Blackwood matched it.

“Dammit.” Forge crossed his arms, accidentally flashing the cards in his hands. Three of a kind, for seven. Once again, irrelevant. All talk and no bite in regards to the mind.

Dionysus announced the next community card, “Queen of hearts.”

Dasha’s confidence swelled, betting again to raise the steaks. “I raise one hundred million.”

Would the Marshal match?

“I raise two hundred million.”

‘So he’s going for it.’

Dasha coolly matched it.

“Aaah, shit. I fold.” Frode wasn’t able to handle it. Interesting. What happened to the double-team?

“Now…” Dionysus licked his lips. “The final card, the river. Are you ready?”

The card slid into the space. Dasha didn’t blink. It was the six of spades, offering no visible advantage for him. He cautiously checked his hand, purposely making a show and expecting the Marshal to follow suit.

He didn’t. Instead, Marshal Roland Blackwood announced, “I raise a hundred thousand.”

‘Hrn.’

“I match,” said Dasha.

Li Xuanming had long since folded. Frode had given up last round.

The showdown was between Dasha and Marshal Roland Blackwood.

Dasha was not ashamed to show his cards: a full house, Kings over threes, anticipating victory, while the Marshal, flickering with emotion, quietly placed his cards on the table.

“How unfortunate,” Marshal Roland Blackwood remarked, frowning.

The table stared in disbelief at his hand — a winning straight flush from four to eight of hearts, an improbable yet triumphant hand.

“My victory once more,” the Marshal declared, his lips turning upwards as his arms took everything he had. “We have one last round, don’t we? Let us proceed, my masked friend.”