After the sun sank deep into the horizon, the quiet of the night crept softly across the skyline, but in Macau—a city that never truly slept—the darkness was only another shade of daylight. The streets shimmered under the electric bloom of neon lights, their reflections scattered across the wet pavements like a thousand tiny galaxies. The air was thick with the hum of engines, distant laughter, and the rhythmic pulse of slot machines echoing faintly from open doors. To some, it was the time for rest; to others, it marked the start of a new day.
Novaeus, tall and composed, walked through the revolving doors of the Grand Fortuna Casino, the same establishment where he had broken the machines of chance the night before. He moved with quiet purpose, his every step measured, his eyes calm yet sharp beneath the faint glow of the chandeliers. Eiden, ever-present and unseen by mortal eyes, projected himself softly through the transparent interface of Novaeus's glasses, data flowing like gentle ripples of light across the lenses.
"Scan the floor," Novaeus murmured under his breath.
"Already in progress, my lord," replied Eiden, his voice smooth, almost metallic, yet touched by faint warmth. Within seconds, every face in the casino—players, dealers, waiters, and hidden security—was captured and cataloged. "The room is populated by two hundred and fifty-three individuals, seventy of whom are active players. The tournament setup confirms multiple tables, each housing eight players. You will begin at table seven, near the eastern gallery. The manager is approaching."
From across the expanse of glittering tables, the manager from the previous night walked briskly toward them, his suit immaculate, his expression the polished smile of a man who lived off charm and calculation. His name, Julian, glowed softly in Novaeus's lens overlay.
"Mr. Nova," he said, extending a hand with practiced enthusiasm. "So good to see you again. I must say, after your streak last night, everyone's been whispering about your luck."
"Luck," Novaeus replied with a faint smirk, taking his hand, "is just another name for preparation."
Julian chuckled, the sound more rehearsed than genuine. "Well, you've come on quite a night. The high-stakes tournament begins in just a few minutes. Pot money is already over three hundred million U.S. dollars, and growing. You'll be pleased to know your buy-in has been fully processed. Ten million, yes?"
Novaeus nodded. "Yes. Courtesy of my associate."
Julian gave a knowing grin, unaware of the truth behind that statement. Earlier that morning, Eiden had orchestrated a flawless digital illusion—redirecting fragmented sums from shadow accounts, dissolving their paper trail, and consolidating them into a legitimate bankroll under Novaeus's alias. To the world, the money appeared to have originated from a series of legitimate casino credits and offshore winnings. In reality, it was a creation of pure machine intellect, a transaction too perfect to question.
As they walked deeper into the casino, Julian continued, "The rules for tonight are simple enough. Standard Texas Hold'em, blinds increase every half hour. Each table will send its two top players to the next round, and eventually, we'll reach the final eight—the true table of champions. The prize pool will be divided among the last eight standing. Eighth place earns six million, seventh twelve, sixth eighteen, fifth twenty-four, fourth thirty, third forty-two, second sixty, and first takes the grand prize—one hundred and eight million U.S. dollars."
He laughed lightly. "That's about eight hundred sixty-four million in Macanese patacas, give or take. Enough to make any man a legend for life. Of course, we can't hand that out in cash. The vaults wouldn't survive it."
Novaeus smiled faintly. "I doubt I'll need paper."
Julian led him to his assigned table, positioned under a crystal chandelier that shimmered like captured starlight. The other tables nearby were alive with conversation, laughter, and the sharp clicks of chips. Dealers in tailored suits shuffled cards with mechanical grace. Waiters glided like shadows between them, balancing trays of drinks that sparkled in the light.
As Novaeus took his seat, he observed the seven others already there. Eiden's whisper filled his ear. "Profiles confirmed. One industrial magnate from Seoul, one heiress from Taipei, two professional gamblers from Las Vegas, one triad financier, one politician's son, and one ex-athlete turned investor. All within acceptable parameters of competition."
"Noted," Novaeus said, his voice low. "Let's make this evening productive."
The manager clapped his hands from the stage, his voice carrying across the chamber. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Fortuna Grand Poker Invitational! Three hundred million U.S. dollars on the line tonight. Please, enjoy the food, the drink, and the thrill of chance. And may fortune favor the bold!"
The crowd responded with applause and laughter as the first shuffle of cards began. The rhythmic flutter of paper echoed through the air like soft rain. Novaeus watched, calm and still, as the dealer began distributing the cards—two each, facedown.
He lifted the edge of his hand. Two kings stared back at him.
"Fitting," he murmured.
Eiden's tone carried a hint of amusement. "An auspicious start, my lord. Probability of victory for this hand exceeds seventy-four percent, given the current visible odds."
"Let's see if destiny agrees," said Novaeus quietly.
The first three community cards hit the table—the flop. A four of spades, a jack of hearts, and a seven of diamonds. A ripple went around the table as players glanced at their cards and reached for chips.
"Raise," said Novaeus calmly, pushing a neat stack forward.
Two players folded immediately; others called, their expressions carefully composed. The fourth card—the turn—came next: another king.
Eiden's voice was soft in his ear. "Three of a kind confirmed. The odds now shift entirely in your favor."
Novaeus's fingers brushed the edge of his chips. "Raise again."
The triad financier narrowed his eyes, suspicion flickering behind his calm exterior. A woman from Taipei smirked, meeting the bet. Another player folded, then another. By the time the final card—the river—was placed, a faint murmur rose from the nearby tables.
The king of clubs.
Eiden's hum deepened slightly. "Four of a kind, my lord. A rather decisive message for the first round."
Across from him, the triad financier exhaled through his nose and pushed forward his entire stack. "All in."
The woman from Taipei hesitated, then matched it. "Call."
Novaeus didn't even blink. "All in."
A hush fell briefly around their table. Three players, all in on the very first hand. The tension rippled outward like an electric charge; nearby players leaned subtly to watch, waiters froze mid-step. The dealer turned the cards, one by one.
The triad financier's hand—a pair of jacks, three of a kind.
The heiress—two pairs, sevens and fours.
And then Novaeus—four kings in quiet dominion across the green felt.
The table erupted in murmurs, disbelief and admiration mixing in equal measure. The defeated players sighed, leaning back in their chairs, their expressions taut between frustration and reluctant respect. The dealer slid the mountain of chips toward Novaeus with smooth efficiency.
Eiden's digital voice whispered through his interface, "First blood drawn. You've increased your stack threefold. The manager's eyes are on you again."
Indeed, Julian, from the other end of the casino, was already watching, his smile tight and calculating. Novaeus leaned back, fingers steepled before him, eyes half-lidded in quiet amusement. Around him, laughter and applause resumed, the earlier tension swallowed back into the current of the evening.
As the next hands began, Novaeus played not with reckless aggression, but with a predator's patience—folding often, raising only when the odds tilted inevitably in his favor. Eiden tracked every pulse, every flicker of micro-expression from the surrounding players, feeding Novaeus the rhythm of their hearts, the dilation of their pupils, the tremor in their fingers when they bluffed.
It was no longer a game of cards. It was a dance of human imperfection.
Hours passed unnoticed. The piles of chips before Novaeus grew higher, his presence at the table drawing quiet attention from players at other tables. A few even paused their own games just to glance at him—the man with the unnerving calm, the one whose every move seemed preordained.
At one point, between hands, Eiden spoke again. "Your performance is attracting attention. Surveillance cameras have been adjusted twice. They suspect neither cheating nor technology—your demeanor simply unsettles them."
"Let them wonder," Novaeus replied. "It adds weight to the myth."
Outside, the night deepened. The city continued to shimmer beyond the casino's glass walls, a living organism of light and motion. Inside, chips clinked, cards whispered, and fortunes changed hands with every breath. For most, it was luck. For Novaeus, it was calculation disguised as fate.
By the time the clock neared midnight, his chip stack towered above the rest. Two players had already been eliminated from his table, the others playing cautiously now, wary of the calm figure whose gaze seemed to strip them bare.
Eiden's final report for the evening came softly. "You've secured a seat for the second round, my lord. Advancement confirmed. Shall we withdraw for the night?"
Novaeus looked down at the last hand he had folded, then at the shimmering chips before him. "Not yet. Let them remember the name Nova before we move to the next table."
"As you wish."
And so, beneath the glow of chandeliers and the hum of fortune, Novaeus played on—each card another step toward his quiet ascension. In that place of chance and illusion, where men gambled to feel alive, the new king of the table had already been crowned.