At first, the banquet unfolded like any other—wine glasses chimed, laughter filled the golden hall, and music drifted lazily from a spectral orchestra hovering in midair.  

The chandeliers pulsed like beating hearts, casting waves of black and silver light across the tables.  

Joseph sat among them, the only heartbeat in the room that still produced heat.  

Every other guest shimmered faintly, like smoke trying to remember its shape.  

Lady Mariserna glided through the room, graceful as a swan, exchanging greetings with dignified specters whose eyes burned faintly red.  

When she reached Joseph’s table, she smiled, lowering her voice just enough for him to hear.  

“Enjoy the appetizers, Mr. Gates. The *main course* is almost ready.”  

Joseph frowned. “Main course?”  

Her smile deepened. “You’ll see.”  

When the orchestra stopped, the silence that followed was thick and electric.  

The lights dimmed.  

From the center of the hall, servants rolled out a long obsidian table, smooth as a mirror and inlaid with faint runes. A deck of black cards materialized above it, floating slowly before settling in a neat pile.

The guests murmured.

Then, from the far end of the hall, *he* stood up.

Lord Josmar Matuwen moved like a shadow given command. His suit was dark as void, the edges embroidered in crimson thread that flickered like living fire. When he spoke, his voice carried not sound but *gravity.*

“Businessmen play with contracts,” he said softly, “warriors with blades… and kings, with fate itself.”  

He extended a hand toward the table. “Tonight, we play with fortune.”

A ghost noble whispered, half in awe, half in dread. “The Game of Souls…”

Joseph leaned back in his chair, watching as the Ghost King’s smile widened.

“This is no ordinary game,” Josmar continued. “The stakes are… reality. Each hand reshapes a fragment of truth. Lose enough, and your memory fades into the cards. Win enough, and you may rewrite a rule.”

He looked at Joseph. “Would you join, mortal merchant?”

Every eye turned to him. The air tightened.  

Joseph smiled, slow and measured. “I never turn down a good deal.”

He rose from his seat and walked toward the table. The black cards shimmered as he sat—taking the corner seat opposite Josmar himself.

Mariserna took her place beside the King, her expression unreadable, like someone both terrified and fascinated to see what would happen next.

The dealer—an eyeless phantom—spread the cards.  

Each was painted with a shifting symbol: time, memory, death, debt, desire. The symbols changed as you looked at them. The rules, Joseph quickly realized, weren’t fixed—they *responded.*

Josmar gestured to the mortal. “You may begin.”

Joseph drew his first card.  

It burned faintly between his fingers—a card marked with gold ink, the sigil of *Coin.*

The ghosts around the table leaned forward. The *Coin* card was powerful but dangerous; it magnified wealth but also risk.  

He chuckled under his breath. “Figures.”

Josmar smiled faintly. “A fitting hand for a man like you.”

They played.  

Round after round, Joseph matched the ghosts’ spectral bets with Mingbi, sliding stacks of glowing notes into the pot. Each card revealed was stranger than the last: *Memory of Winter, Hunger, Oath, Time Reversed.*  

The table grew hotter, the air thicker.  

Each lost hand turned a ghost paler, thinner. Each win made Joseph’s surroundings bend slightly, as though the world was redrawing itself around him.

By the fourth round, half the nobles had already folded. Their chairs sat empty, their laughter fading like distant bells.

Only Joseph and the Ghost King remained.  

Josmar’s gaze was like a storm contained behind glass. “You play well, mortal. Few survive past the third hand.”

Joseph smirked. “It’s just numbers and nerves. I’ve gambled with worse.”

The King’s smile was razor-thin. “And yet you know this is not a game you can *truly* win. Beat me too hard, and my guests lose face. Lose too much, and you lose *yourself.*”

Joseph leaned forward, meeting his gaze. “Then I suppose I’ll win just enough.”

He drew another card.

The room held its breath.

*The Merchant.*

A card no one had seen before. The golden outline of a human silhouette holding both a scale and a torch.

The Ghost King blinked, for the first time showing a hint of surprise.  

“That card doesn’t belong to this deck.”

Joseph smiled slowly. “Guess I brought my own luck.”

He placed it down. The table flared with light, swallowing the shadows for an instant.

When the glow faded, the chips, cards, and stakes had rearranged themselves—Joseph’s pile was smaller than before, but the air around him *bowed*. Even the Ghost King tilted his head slightly, the faintest gesture of acknowledgment.

A perfect balance—victory without humiliation.

The round ended. Applause—slow, careful, reverent—spread through the hall.

Josmar rose, straightening his cuffs. “You understand the etiquette of power, Mr. Gates. You win without conquering. You buy without begging.”  

He extended a hand. “For that, I grant you safe passage through my city. And perhaps… future consideration.”

Joseph took his hand. The shake was cold as stone, strong as death.

“Pleasure doing business, Your Majesty.”

Later, as the hall dispersed, Mariserna approached him quietly. Her tone was softer now, touched with reluctant admiration.  

“You impressed him. That alone is worth more than money.”

“I wasn’t trying to impress him,” Joseph said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I was trying to survive him.”

“And you did,” she said with a faint smile. “Which means you’ve earned the right to speak business with me again.”

Joseph’s grin returned, sharp and amused. “Good. Then we’ll talk price after I get some sleep.”

She laughed, the sound like chimes over a graveyard. “You really are reckless, Mr. Gates.”

“Reckless?” he echoed, turning toward the exit. The Gui Baojini’s engine purred outside like a waiting beast.  

“No. Just rich enough to keep playing.”