[ROUND THREE]:

  FOXFIRE - LOSS

  LIN - WIN

  Sound erupted around the ring following the supervisor’s final announcement. Some spirits cheered; others just exhaled like they’d been holding their breath this entire time. Wagers flared into existence as motes of light, zipping back to winners’ hands.

  Chewie let out a breath that sounded almost like a swear and scrubbed a sleeve over her face as if erasing moisture that absolutely wasn’t there.

  Lady Foxfire did not clap, but she did smile very slowly.

  “Lovely,” she purred, as the supervisor thumped his gavel again. “Game closed! No recordings, no rebroadcasts, as agreed.”

  Attendants began to shoo the crowd back, curtains of light dropping around the central platform to block any lingering SpiritTube attempts. Whispers already buzzed at the edges—Tier?2 this, samsara that, did you see the way the illusions broke…

  Eathan tuned it all out.

  His hands were still shaking. He flexed them carefully, then looked up when Chewie barrelled into his space.

  “You okay?”

  He swallowed. Considered saying no.

  “Define ‘okay’,” he managed instead.

  She snorted, the sound edged with relief. “Still making jokes. Good enough.”

  Before he could reply, an usher spirit cleared his throat delicately nearby. “Honoured guests,” he said, bowing to both of them but mostly to Eathan. “The Empress requests your presence. To… distribute your reward.”

  “Great,” Eathan muttered. “Wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  Chewie bumped her shoulder lightly into his. “You did it,” she said, more serious now. “You’re the winner, so keep your head up.”

  He nodded once. He wasn’t sure he could stop her from seeing anything, but he could at least arrange his face.

  They followed the usher off the main floor.

  The private room was quieter.

  Quieter, but no less extravagant. Here, the air was cool and tinted violet, the ceiling painted to look like an endless twilight sky. The walls were lined with shelves of floating bottles, each containing swirling lights and koi swimming in anonymous memories.

  Lady Foxfire lounged on a crescent-shaped couch that probably predated several dynasties, one hand idly flipping a chip of condensed karma across her knuckles.

  Up close, she looked… sharper. Less like a distant celebrity and more like a very intelligent predator who had decided, for now, that you were interesting.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “You are either very clever, or very stubborn. Possibly both.”

  A pause.

  “How annoying.”

  “…”

  Eathan paused two steps inside the door, hands at his sides. He bowed, still not entirely sure how deep a Tier?2 was supposed to go to a realm boss. After a second of deliberation, he decided to go with somewhere between “respectful junior” and “please don’t step on me.”

  “Thank you for the game,” he said, because politeness was a universal language. “And for not broadcasting it.”

  Foxfire regarded him over the rim of her cup, then waved him over with a smile. “Please, do have a seat.”

  A low table between them steamed with tea that smelled like roses. Chewie had claimed the opposite end of the couch, legs too short to quite reach the floor, boots swinging with restless irritation. Eathan sat on a cushioned stool a step lower, palms still sweaty.

  His fingers tightened around his ID.

  “If this is the part where you pretend to forget our bet,” he said, “I should warn you I’m low on Karma but very high on Stubbornness.”

  Foxfire’s eyes slid to him in silence. One of her ears twitched. “Relax, darling," she mused. “If I wanted leverage, I’d take it from the Paladins, not from overworked children on unpaid quests.”

  Eathan’s jaw tightened at the word children, but he let it go. Taking in his reaction, Foxfire set the cup down and laced her fingers, chin resting on the back of her hand. The other picked up a karma chip, rolling it between fingers.

  “Go on, then,” she purred. “You’ve been thinking. Say it.”

  That was the thing about the Commander of Area 008—she didn’t just see what you did. She saw that half-second before you did it, when the thought sharpened.

  Eathan exhaled slowly. He met her gaze straight?on.

  “You had a point,” he said. “About the game.”

  “Oh?” An elegant brow rose. “And which one is that?”

  “That you weren’t really betting on dice,” he said. His throat felt dry, but the words came anyway. “You were betting on which version of me walked out.”

  Chewie glanced sideways at him, interest spiking under her scowl.

  “You called it Three Throws of Samsara—past, present, future.” Eathan’s voice picked up momentum, matching the line of thought he’d been biting back since the Pavilion. “But the game wasn’t about whether those scenes happened or would happen. It was about how I reacted to them.”

  Foxfire watched him for a beat, the chip stilling between her fingers.

  “Do go on.”

  Eathan exhaled. “First throw was about whether I could accept that small, stupid things still count. Second was about whether I recognised when my own doubts were being… over?produced.”

  The memory of his reflection’s calm, dissecting voice scraped along his nerves. He pushed through it.

  “And the last throw…” He swallowed. “That wasn’t a prophecy test. You didn’t freeze the timer because you were forgiving. You froze it because you wanted to see if, when my worst-case future was shoved in my face, I’d collapse or shut down, or—”

  “—or keep walking.” Foxfire finished.

  Eathan met her eyes. “Yeah. So.”

  He wet his lips, pulse steadying as the pieces clicked into saying itself.

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  “You wanted to see whether the version of me who walks out is broken, numb, or still irritatingly determined.” His mouth quirked, humour dry. “You weren’t betting on outcomes. You were gambling on which version of me stepped through that door.”

  Silence slipped in afterwards.

  Foxfire watched him without a word. The stars above them slowed as if the room itself was listening. Even Chewie stilled, amber eyes flicking between them.

  Amidst this tension, Eathan suddenly became very aware of the sweat cooling at the back of his neck.

  Then, Foxfire laughed.

  It wasn’t mocking, wasn’t kind either. It was a pure, delighted laugh as she leaned back, tails fluttering lazily again.

  “Bai Hu’s handpicked child,” she said. “No wonder he gambled on you.”

  It hit harder than it should have.

  Eathan swallowed past a sudden tightness. “He’d probably say it was a terrible bet.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “He always hated admitting he was sentimental.”

  She twirled the karma chip once more, then snapped her fingers. “In any case, you’re mostly right, little phantom. But you did get one thing wrong.”

  Eathan’s shoulders tensed despite him. “Only one?”

  “Well, two,” she amended cheerfully. “But let’s start with the simpler.”

  Foxfire lifted her cup again, letting the pause stretch just long enough to fray his nerves, then said, “I never said I wouldn’t give you information if you lost.”

  Eathan blinked.

  “…Huh?”

  Chewie straightened. “You were going to help us anyway?”

  Foxfire’s eyes gleamed. “My words, precisely, were: ‘If you win, I’ll tell you what you wish to know.’” She tapped a finger against the porcelain. “At no point did I suggest the contrary. You all merely assumed the usual cruelty.”

  Eathan stared at her.

  The tension that had been wound tight in his chest like wire fizzled with nowhere to go. It felt vaguely like sprinting up six flights of stairs preparing to argue with a dean, only to discover the office was closed for renovations.

  “So I psychically prepared for a tug-of-war over intel,” he said weakly, “and you’re telling me I… pre-argued with a wall.”

  Chewie snorted.

  Foxfire smiled, satisfied. “Consider it cardio—for your paranoia.”

  “Then why bother with all this?” Chewie crossed her arms. “The wagers, the karma, the dramatic illusions—”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Foxfire’s smile sharpened. “I cultivate fate, yes. But more importantly, I cultivate stories.”

  She leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Gossip, drama, emotional theatrics. This realm runs on karma, child—but it lives on narrative. And you, my dear child, just provided spectacular entertainment.”

  Eathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “We really risked nine thousand karma so you could have front-row tickets to my nervous breakdown.”

  “‘Risked’.” Foxfire wiggled her fingers dismissively. “You chose quite well. And besides—” Her gaze flicked over him with a faint, approving nod. “You didn’t break.”

  “…”

  That should not have felt as gratifying as it did.

  “Fine,” Chewie said. “You said two things wrong. What’s the other?”

  At once, an ominous little prickle walked down Eathan’s spine, and he had to suppress the urge to pull up [Calamity Radar] for confirmation.

  Foxfire’s expression went positively angelic. “Ah yes,” she said. “The broadcast.”

  Eathan sat up straighter. “The what?”

  “The broadcast that didn’t happen,” she clarified, lashes lowering in mock innocence. “I did clearly state that no live streams, recordings, or external transmissions would be permitted. And they weren’t. All external feeds went dark when the game began.”

  He exhaled in relief.

  Then she added, “However.”

  “…”

  “In the final round,” Foxfire continued, “your reaction was… shall we say… unexpectedly intense. Your aura field surged far beyond predicted tolerances. The dice and the ward net are designed to contain a Tier-4 resonance. Tier-3, at most.” She sighed, almost indulgently. “No one expected to have a Tier-2 auspicious anomaly in the room.”

  Chewie’s brows climbed. She turned to Eathan. “You overloaded the ring?”

  “Overload is such an ugly word.” Foxfire tilted her head. “Let us say your emotions… seeped.”

  Eathan’s stomach dropped. “What does that mean?”

  “The illusion remained inside the ring,” she assured him, holding up a hand. “No data left the array. No RealmNet recording exists. However, for a brief moment, everyone in the inner circle experienced an empathic echo of your scenario.”

  “An… echo,” he repeated faintly.

  Foxfire wiggled her fingers, as if painting the air.

  “Faces blurred, names stripped, identifying features scrubbed. I am, after all, a responsible host. But emotions? The shape of it?” Her smile curled. “They felt that.”

  Chewie’s eyes lit with unholy delight. “So basically,” she summarised, “everyone watched you emotionally speedrun a crisis.”

  “A very moving crisis,” Foxfire agreed, utterly unbothered. “Several spectators cried. One fainted. The house comped two karma cocktails.”

  Eathan’s jaw dropped. Heat crawled up his neck so fast his ears rang.

  “All this,” he managed, voice cracking, “because you wanted gossip?”

  “Gossip, dear child, is the lifeblood of immortality.” Foxfire’s eyes sparkled. “Power fades, beauty withers—but scandal?”

  She spread her hands.

  “Scandal is eternal.”

  He slumped back, head tipped toward the ceiling. “I am never showing my face in that den again.”

  “Relax.” Chewie patted his arm, not gently. “They didn’t see you. Just ‘some poor Tier-2 idiot imploding over futures and tigers.’”

  “That’s not any better.”

  Foxfire sipped her tea, entirely unsympathetic. “In any case, your karmic surge cracked one of my dice.” She smiled. “You should be grateful I’m not charging you for the replacement.”

  Eathan eyed the elegantly folded fan at her wrist, somewhat waiting for a receipt to manifest. “…Thank you?”

  “Of course.” She set the fan aside and clapped her hands once. “Now. As promised—your hard-earned gossip.”

  The shift in her tone was subtle. The playfulness retreated a little; something older slid behind her eyes, the weight of a Commander who ruled a whole realm of the dead and never broke character unless she wanted to.

  Eathan straightened.

  Foxfire nudged a small, lacquered box across the table toward him. When he opened it, a paper map unfurled itself. The Realm of Passing spread across its surface in muted violets: spires, markets, rivers, and the thin, sinuous line of a current that cut through the whole thing like a scar.

  “Midnight Avenue is only one street in this realm,” she said. “You, however, are looking for something that did not belong here until recently.”

  Her finger tapped the map once. The ink of the river brightened.

  “The River of Oblivion,” she said. “Wangchuan.”

  The name settled on the air like cool fog. Eathan’s gaze traced the painted current. It wound between cliffs and docks, then vanished into a white margin marked with a single character: 忘.

  “Oblivion,” Chewie muttered, leaning in. “Figures.”

  Foxfire’s lips curved. “A vast river of silvery water that washes memory from those who immerse. Souls drink from it before crossing the Bridge of Regret; they let go of what would weigh too heavily on their next lives.” She paused. “Or they refuse, and carry their burdens forward. The bureaucracy keeps very detailed forms about both.”

  Eathan swallowed. “And recently?”

  “Recently,” she said, “it has been busier than usual. Not just with souls and regrets. Lost things have been turning up in the current. Trinkets. Half-written contracts. Broken oaths. The occasional stubborn divine essence that refuses to dissolve on schedule.”

  Her glance flicked to him, lazy and sharp at once.

  “The kind of things,” she added, “one might expect to shed off stupid deities who chose to burst themselves to finish a nightmare.”

  Eathan’s fingers tightened reflexively on the edge of the map.

  “He’s… in the River?”

  Foxfire didn’t answer directly.

  “Let us say,” she mused, “that the Ferrymen’s Union filed three separate complaints about hazardous divine spillage in the last cycle. And let us also say that Lady Meng has suddenly taken a very personal interest in river patrol reports.”

  Chewie’s brows shot up. “And you decided not to fish the pieces out yourself because…?”

  “Because they are not mine, little one. And because attempting to rearrange another’s divinity is one of those things the bureaucracy frowns upon—even for me.” Foxfire folded her fan, tapping it lightly against her palm. “Tampering with a god’s core without consent is the kind of hobby that gets you very boring meetings with very serious people.”

  “Like the Jade Deity,” Eathan muttered.

  “Especially the Jade Deity.”

  Chewie narrowed her eyes. “Since when do you care what the Jade Deity thinks?”

  “I don’t,” Foxfire said promptly. “I care what my streets look like when the audits arrive.”

  She paused, then added, almost idly, “Besides—”

  Her gaze drifted upward, following one of the ghostly koi as it looped overhead.

  “Gods can be very entertaining in their current state,” she said. “Especially a war deity like Bai Hu. It would be rude to fix him without consent.”

  Eathan made a strangled noise. “He’s not a broken vase.”

  “No,” Foxfire agreed. “He is a very expensive, very dangerous limited edition. One that you are clearly determined to collect. However…”

  Her expression briefly turned serious.

  "Do be aware that his essence isn’t just fractured—it's splintered across many things. A chaotic puzzle, if you will.” She paused. “Tread carefully. Not everything should be pieced back together."

  Before Eathan could respond, Foxfire snapped the fan open again, pointed it toward the river’s curve. The map showed it as a band of molten silver cutting through the landscape, its banks dotted with tiny vendor icons.

  “Oblivion’s banks are lined with vendors,” she said. “They sell souvenirs—bottled memories, slivers of emotion. Stand there long enough, and you’ll hear every kind of regret for sale.”

  "Souvenirs?” Chewie narrowed her eyes. “Who would willingly visit a memory-eating river?"

  "You underestimate how eager some souls are to forget." Foxfire smiled. “The river does what it was built to do: it wears things down, blurs names and round edges. And somewhere along that water, something of what you’re looking for is lodged. He’s… stubborn, you see. Even when in pieces.”

  Eathan’s throat felt dry. He stared at the glowing river on the map, and another thought clicked belatedly.

  “Wait,” he said slowly. “If the river scrubs everything it touches, how hasn’t the core already been… washed away?”

  Foxfire’s smile sharpened.

  “Exactly, cutie—time is ticking.”