Chapter 2: Rivalries and Loopholes

On the evening of October 13th, I arrived at 52 Maple Heights Lane—a small town with colonial-style buildings, white columns and red brick, home to both residents and businesses. The air smelled like fallen leaves, distant wood smoke, and the faint sweetness of pumpkin from porches lined with jack-o’-lanterns.

I walked up to a two-story house, its porch light flickering, scanned a QR code at the entrance, and was signaled in by staff dressed in crisp black polos—the kind you’d see at a Marriott or a private security company. Their faces were unreadable, like bouncers at an exclusive club.

Inside the hall, I quietly observed. A dozen or so players were already seated—some in tailored suits, some in branded hoodies and Nike sneakers, all with the same hungry look. The air buzzed with nervous energy, and the carpet felt thick beneath my shoes.

I found an inconspicuous spot in the back, near a potted fern, and waited patiently, blending into the wallpaper. The faint scent of fertilizer from the plant mixed with the subtle aroma of coffee from the restaurant upstairs.

After a while, the main door opened and five or six men swaggered in. They wore ripped Levi’s jeans and leather jackets; some had nose rings, earrings, tattoos of blue wolves or white panthers—styles straight out of a heavy metal festival or a biker bar. Their flamboyant look clashed with the upscale setting, like rock stars crashing a charity gala.

The leader was a man in his thirties, sporting a mohawk and a Newport cigarette dangling from his mouth. The scent of menthol filled the air, sharp and familiar.

Through the haze, our eyes met. His gaze was sharp, calculating—a predator recognizing another survivor. My pulse raced, and my hand tightened on my phone.

We recognized each other immediately. The tension hung thick for a moment, like the pause before a fistfight.

“Yo! Isn’t this Callahan?” he called out, feigning surprise as he strode over, voice echoing off the hardwood floors.

I inhaled, feeling a phantom pain in my left hand where my fingers had been severed. My jaw clenched, but I kept my cool, refusing to show weakness.

He smirked: “Been two years, huh? Out of cash again? Take my advice—don’t play anymore. This game’ll chew you up.” His tone was half-mocking, half-genuine concern, the kind only a true competitor could muster.

He tapped his finger to his temple—a warning more than a joke. “You need brains for this game. Recklessness alone won’t cut it.”

He slapped my back, winked, and led his crew to a plush sofa, sprawling out with swagger, boots kicked up on the coffee table like they owned the place.

I stayed silent, rubbing my missing fingers, the skin rough and scarred. The memory of pain was always close, a constant companion.

Memories of that game two years ago flooded back, sharp as broken glass. My body tensed, remembering every detail.

“Callahan, trust me—get through this round and we’ll win for sure. Go through the Gate of Judgment and pick the Sword of Justice. If you get it, you’re the biggest winner. Don’t forget our deal—split the prize fifty-fifty.” His voice had been full of promise, but his eyes were already calculating.

“Don’t worry! Old Vance, I couldn’t have scored so high without you. Wait here, I’ll go grab the Sword of Justice.” I remembered the adrenaline, the hope, the pounding of my heart as I walked toward the Gate.

I remembered walking out of the Gate of Judgment, Sword of Justice in hand, joy blooming on my face, feeling like I’d finally made it. The crowd’s eyes were on me; the rush was intoxicating.

But when the dealer announced my score, my smile froze. The room seemed to close in around me, the air thick with disappointment.

“Why?! I clearly got the Sword of Justice, the highest scoring item. You must be mistaken!” My voice had cracked, desperate, echoing off the walls.

“We’re not mistaken. You got the Black Magic Sword, a death item. You lose 500 points. Now, your score is the lowest among all players.” The dealer’s voice was cold, final, like a judge passing sentence, the mask reflecting nothing but my own panic.

“Mr. Ethan Callahan, this round is over. You lost. You have two choices: accept a $1 million USD penalty, or cut off two fingers.” The dealer’s voice was cold and final, echoing in my ears for months afterward.

Then Old Vance’s grinning face flashed before me, his teeth sharp as a wolf’s, his eyes glinting with malice.

“Callahan, this game’s all about brains. Why don’t you get it? Yeah, I swapped the Sword of Justice for the Black Magic Sword. You had the high score—I had to do something.” His words were ice in my veins, the betrayal cutting deeper than any knife.

“Split the prize? Who’s dumb enough for that? Why would I give away half my winnings?”

“$1.5 million USD—all mine.”

“Oh, and my real name isn’t Vance Miller. I’m Hunter Snake Vance, a professional player. I analyze the rules, spot loopholes, then find a sucker like you and—snap!—harvest. Easy money!”

Snake Vance’s beady eyes glinted like a venomous snake, cold and calculating, his voice slick with con-artist bravado.

Two years later, I’ve run into him again. Fate has a twisted sense of humor.

I watched him lounging, legs stretched out, his five lackeys around him—the blond one, Harley; the silver-haired one, Finn; the other three were unfamiliar, probably hired muscle. They wore Timberland boots and sported tattoos of skulls and American flags. They laughed too loudly, trying to cover their nerves.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed when the dealer for this round appeared, his presence chilling the room.

The dealer, dressed in a black robe and mask, stepped into the center of the hall. His footsteps were deliberate, echoing like a judge entering court, the mask resembling something out of a Halloween slasher flick.

“Good evening, players. Welcome to the Black Ram Game. Here are the rules for this round.” His voice, altered by a voice changer, sounded mechanical and eerie, like something out of a horror movie.

“This round takes place in this town. Boundaries are marked and fenced—leaving the area during the game is forbidden. Violators are eliminated and fined $500,000 USD. Once the game starts, you cannot leave or withdraw. Those who do are fined $500,000 USD.”

No one objected or quit. We’d all agreed to these terms and signed contracts. The legalese had been thick, but the stakes were clear—no loopholes, no mercy.

“Each player receives a 50-coin advance from the dealer. These coins can be used in-game to buy items, trade with others, but stealing coins is forbidden. Violators are disqualified and fined $500,000 USD.”

“At the end, each player must return 50 coins. Anything above 50 is profit; anything less, you owe the difference as debt.”

“One coin equals $10,000 USD. Fifty coins is $500,000 USD.”

“Game objective: Find the lost cards. Scattered throughout the town are Sun, Moon, and Star cards. Collect one Sun, three Moon, and ten Star cards to exchange for ten coins. The ratio is 1:3:10. If you’re missing any, you can’t exchange.”

“To get cards, complete tasks from shop owners. Task details will be available once the game starts—visit shops to receive them.”

“In addition to Sun, Moon, and Star cards, there’s a special Black Ram card. One Black Ram card can be exchanged for ten coins, but you must trigger a hidden task to obtain one. This depends on luck and insight.”

“Once you’ve collected cards, go to the Black Ram shop at the top of the clock tower in the west end of town to exchange them for coins. The shop also sells helpful items for the game, which can be bought with coins.”

“The game runs from 9 AM on October 14th to 9 PM on October 16th—three days. Each night from 9 PM to 9 AM is rest time. Before the end, go to the Black Ram shop to exchange your cards.”

“At 9 PM on October 16th, all players gather in this hall. The one with the most coins wins and gets an extra $3 million USD. If there’s a tie, the prize is split.”

“The player with the fewest coins pays a $1 million USD penalty. If there’s a tie for last, the penalty is split.”

“That’s all for the rules. Finally, cards can only be obtained by completing shop tasks, triggering hidden tasks, or trading with other players. No violence or threats to take cards. All trades must be done in the central trading hall—otherwise, they’re invalid.”

“Each player gets a room in this house; you’ll receive your room card soon. The restaurant is on the second floor—24-hour food service, free board. Rest well tonight; the game begins tomorrow at 9 AM.”

The dealer finished and retreated. His cold mask betrayed no emotion. The room felt colder in his absence, the tension thickening like fog.

The hall erupted in conversation as people discussed the rules. The buzz was almost deafening, snippets of American slang—"no way," "that’s nuts," "bro, we’re gonna clean up"—floating through the air.

I stayed silent in my corner, nearly invisible, but my mind was racing. The gears in my head spun faster than ever. I rubbed my temples, jotting notes on a napkin I’d grabbed from the restaurant.

Quickly, I spotted a loophole in the game and began to devise a strategy. The thrill of the hunt was back, adrenaline sharpening my focus.

Just as I was formulating my plan, three sharp claps—"clap clap clap"—cut through the chatter. The sound was sharp, authoritative, like a coach calling a huddle.

Instinctively, I looked up. Snake Vance stood in the center of the hall, wearing a mysterious smile, surveying us all like a king in his court, a quarterback about to call the winning play.

Everyone’s attention turned to him; the hall fell silent. The anticipation was electric, every eye locked on Vance.

Snake Vance, pleased with the reaction, got straight to the point.

“Everyone, I’ve just found the surefire way to win this game.” His confidence was infectious, and even the most skeptical players leaned in, hungry for an edge.