Word spread fast.
By the time Eathan and Chewie were ushered to the central platform of the Pavilion, the entire upper ring had packed with spectators—nobles, zombies, even a few off?duty ghost officers. The air all around them buzzed with anticipation.
And standing at the center of all that, Eathan felt distinctly like an endangered exhibit behind invisible glass.
The gambling platform itself had unfolded from the floor, a circular ring of enormous pearls. He and Chewie stood on one edge, under a forest of hovering lanterns. Lady Foxfire was on the opposite edge, reclining against plush crimson cushions of her throne chair that her admirers had carried all the way onto the platform.
A spirit floated between them—a lean ghost official in neat robes, holding an onyx gavel that bled through his translucent grip. His sleeves bore the crest of Meng’s Bureau.
“Welcome,” he intoned, voice amplified by unseen arrays. “To an official match of Three Throws of Samsara.”
Chewie frowned. “Three Throws of what now?"
Scattered murmurs rose. Eathan caught phrasing like “idiotically high stakes” and “last guy cried” whispered not quite quietly enough.
“For the knowledge our honoured challenger seeks,” the supervisor ghost said, gaze briefly flickering to him, “Commander Foxfire has chosen this game as adjudicator. Per protocol, I will now review the rules.”
He placed the bowl carefully onto the engraved circle etched into the table. It lit up, runes spiralling outward in gold and violet.
“Three Throws of Samsara tests one’s wit, luck, and emotional stability. There are three rounds,” he recited. “Each round consists of a single throw of the Threefold Die—Past, Present, and Future. Upon each throw, the arrays will evoke a vision tailored to the challenger’s karmic resonance.”
His eyes turned to Eathan. “Only you will see the illusions, for they are drawn from your karmic record. Some will be true memories. Some will be false constructs assembled from your fears and suppositions.”
Foxfire snapped open her fan again and watched him over the top of it, amused.
“After witnessing each illusion,” the supervisor continued, “you have ten breaths to decide whether the vision is Karmic Truth or Crafted Illusion. Speak your answer clearly. The arrays will judge.”
He lifted his onyx gavel.
“If you correctly judge at least two of the three throws, Commander Foxfire will provide the information she has pledged under Binding Gossip Writ.” His mouth tightened minutely on that phrase. “If you fail…”
“If you fail,” Foxfire interrupted lightly, “I claim your karmic stakes, and the right to broadcast some… tastefully embarrassing snapshots of your memories on RealmNet. Plus…” she twirled a token between two fingers, “I will be filing a very persuasive petition to assume jurisdiction over Area 001 once that boring old Dormancy Protocol ends.”
Chewie’s head snapped toward her. “Over what?”
“Area 001 has been without a Commander for a while now—yes, Miss Bunny does not count.” Foxfire sighed. “Such a vacuum invites chaos. Naturally, someone competent will eventually be appointed.”
Her eyes glittered.
“I think I would look excellent running Pan-Asia.”
Eathan grimaced internally. The idea of Foxfire taking over Area 001’s HQ was giving him heartburn.
The supervisor cleared his throat. “Additional rules. One: challenger must consent to karmic record access. Due to the nature of Three Throws of Samsara, the arrays must be allowed to draw from the deepest layers of memory and potential. Two: no external assistance during visions. No talismans, no telepathy, no hand signs. Three: no recordings or live streams. Any violation shall invoke severe karmic backlash.”
A subtle field swept over the crowd. SpiritTube devices flickered dead in hands. A collective disgruntled noise went through the spectators.
Eathan hesitated.
Consenting to full karmic access meant this place would see everything—every shame, fear, small pettiness he normally avoided thinking about. And this was Foxfire’s domain; gossip here could probably propagate faster than a viral curse.
But on the other side of that scale sat Taeril’s fractured core, drifting somewhere in this realm, running out of time.
Chewie frowned up at him. “You don’t have to agree to this,” she said bluntly. “We can go suffer bureaucratic hell with Meng Po instead.”
Eathan took a breath, steadying himself.
Foxfire—unpredictable and theatrical she may be—had still insisted on formal Binding. He eyed the Meng’s Bureau’s stamp gleaming on a parchment rolled near the supervisor’s elbow. For all of her chaos, there were lines she probably wouldn’t cross. Not if she wanted to keep her Night Market empire.
And Eathan was not the same boy who flinched from every mirror the Commander’s Nightmare held up to him.
“I’ll live,” he said, more for himself than anyone else. “Hopefully.”
“Questionable,” Chewie muttered.
“Challenger,” the supervisor announced. “Do you consent to your memories being fully accessed?"
Eathan lifted his chin. “I consent,” he told the supervisor. “For this game only.”
Golden script flared briefly over his spiritual ID, then sank.
“Consent recorded,” the supervisor said. “Next, the stakes.”
Foxfire clapped her hands once. A tray appeared between them, piled high with Karma Tokens—each coin etched with tiny, shifting characters.
“Three throws, three stakes,” she sang. “Three thousand Karma per throw. Total of nine thousand.”
The room inhaled collectively.
“That’s Tier?Three lifetime accumulation… ”
“As expected from the Empress… that’s more than my entire reincarnation queue.”
Even Chewie swerved to stare at him. “Nine thousand,” she repeated slowly. “Do you have that much?”
Eathan’s [SYSTEM] blinked obligingly.
[Karma]: +11660
Realm of Passing exchange locked.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Tier: 2 — Enlightened Phantom (T2)
He swallowed. Okay. I definitely have that much.
The problem was what losing it would mean.
Taeril’s voice echoed from some old COZMART night, leaning against the counter with a mug of questionable tea.
“Karma’s your interrealm credit score,” he’d said. “Go into karmic debt, and the universe doesn’t send a bill. It adjusts your odds.”
Losing nine thousand in one go could gut his standing. Even as a Qilin host, he wasn’t sure what kind of backlash he’d trigger. Ill luck, harsher tribulations, tighter reincarnation restrictions—whatever form it took, it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Foxfire watched him weigh it out, eyes glittering with interest.
“You may, of course, choose a smaller stake,” she said sweetly. “And I’ll give you smaller hints. Vague directions, half rumours. Very tasteful, somewhat useless.”
Eathan’s hand closed around the edge of the table.
Bai Hu tearing his core out of his own chest flashed behind his eyes. The way his last words had twisted with bitter gentleness. The thought of that core drifting further, thinned by hunts from the shadows, while Eathan played safe—
He exhaled, tension draining out on the breath.
“Three thousand per throw,” he said. “Deal.”
Chewie stared at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Eathan—”
He glanced at her, trying a crooked smile.
“Saving Mister White first,” he said. “I’ll worry about my karmic mortgage later.”
For a fraction of a second, even Foxfire looked taken aback.
Then her lips curled, sharp and bright. “Oh,” she murmured. “Interesting.”
“Stakes accepted,” the supervisor ghost declared. “Nine thousand karma locked.”
Eathan’s ID pulsed; his karma count dimmed slightly as if bracing for possible subtraction. Overhead, a translucent counter appeared:
[CURRENT STAKE]: 9000 Karma
[RESULT]: Pending…
Chewie folded her arms, jaw tight. “If you lose, I will burn this place down and become an arsonist.”
“Please don’t threaten the woman who controls our gossip lifeline,” Eathan muttered.
Foxfire laughed openly. “Hush, little war god. Let’s begin.”
She gestured elegantly.
“First throw,” the supervisor intoned. “Past.”
He lifted the bowl and shook it three times. The jade dice clinked in a strangely muffled way, sound sinking into the arrays etched below. With a deft motion, he cast them onto the table.
They spun, struck the engraved ring, and flared.
The world blinked.
***
Eathan opened his eyes to fluorescent lighting.
Harsh, too bright. The chime of a door opening, the hum of a cooler in the background. A familiar synthetic lemon cleaner smell hit his nose.
He stood in a narrow aisle lined with shelves. Colourful candy bars, gum packets, individually wrapped snacks—each meticulously aligned.
In front of him, a shorter version of himself was rearranging the display.
Seven?year?old Eathan.
He watched, disoriented. The kid wore a hand?me?down jacket a size too big, sleeves swallowed over his fingers. His brows were furrowed in fierce concentration as he pushed each chocolate bar exactly three milimeters to the right, matching the label edges with the shelf’s lip.
Eathan’s throat tightened. I remember this store, he thought. A neighbourhood convenience shop from before COZMART, before everything. But the day itself… blurred.
The bell over the door chimed.
An elderly woman stepped in, bundled in a worn wool coat, a knit hat pulled down low. Her movements were slow, careful. She shuffled toward the snack aisle, eyes on the shelves.
Seven?year?old him didn’t look up.
The woman stopped behind him, hands hovering uncertainly over the neatly ordered bars.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Excuse me—”
She reached, then flinched back when mini Eathan abruptly slid another row into place, shoulders tight. His small hands were moving too fast for no real reason, breath coming shallow and sharp.
His face—when Eathan circled to see it properly—was too blank. That post?accident blank. The kind that had filled his reflection for months.
The woman opened her mouth again, eyes kind, voice soft. “Do you mind if—”
The kid kept rearranging without a flicker. It wasn’t cruelty; it was pure tunnel vision. If the shelves were perfect, he wouldn’t think about the quiet house, the funeral incense, the way adults had stopped saying “your parents” and started saying “they.”
She hesitated, glanced once toward the counter where an overworked teenager was arguing with a supplier over holopad. No one else looked at her.
After a moment, she let her hand fall.
“…Never mind,” she whispered to herself.
She turned away quietly and shuffled out of the shop, the bell chiming again, thin and oddly final.
The vision lingered on the aisle for three long heartbeats. Seven?year?old Eathan kept working until the bars were aligned in perfect little rows, mouth pressed into a tight line.
Then he stopped, shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly, and stared at his own hands like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.
The world rippled.
Eathan jerked back into the Eternal Pavilion, heart pounding.
Lanterns, crowd, Foxfire’s lazy posture—all snapped back into existence around him. The jade dice lay where they had fallen, glowing faintly.
He could still feel the cold of the convenience store tiles under his socks.
“What did you see?” Chewie hissed under her breath.
He couldn’t answer. The rules wouldn’t let him. A faint tick marked the air—ten breaths.
[ROUND ONE DECISION WINDOW]
10…
9…
8…
Eathan’s thoughts spun.
That… that felt real. The smell, the buzzing lights, the way his chest had clenched. But he didn’t remember that old lady. He remembered the store, the candy, the way he’d lined things up in neat patterns because the world outside wasn’t. But someone talking? Standing there? Had his brain just… edited her out?
He swallowed.
If it was false, it was a very detailed fabrication. If it was true, he’d spent years never realizing he’d blocked someone’s path to a snack because he’d been too busy trying to control candy bar rows.
It’s too trivial, a part of him argued. Karmic tests, resurrection games—shouldn’t they show grand betrayals, life?changing choices, not… aisle traffic jams?
Another breath ticked down.
7…
6…
Small, petty moments. That’s what his therapist at Westpoint had said once. That grief and avoidance showed up in how you stacked your plates, how you avoided eye contact, how you forgot to reply to texts because every notification felt like a landmine.
Eathan clenched his jaw.
Would I really ignore someone like that completely? I always notice people in my space. I hate being in the way. That has to be fake, right?
2…
Eathan exhaled, chest tight. “False,” he said. “Constructed illusion.”
Silence.
The table’s runes glowed, cycling crimson, then white. The gavel spirit watched as the arrays reached their verdict.
The glow settled into a deep, decisive violet.
“Round One result,” the supervisor intoned. “Incorrect.”
A soft exclamation rippled through the crowd.
Foxfire clicked her tongue. “Oh, dear.”
Eathan stared. For a heartbeat, the words didn’t land.
The supervisor continued, formal as ever. “The scenario depicted was a True Karmic Memory. Recorded in your ledger when you were seven years, four months, and three days old.”
Eathan’s palms went cold.
Foxfire tilted her head, studying his expression.
“You mortals,” she mused. “Always assuming Karma only tallies the grand dramas—the tragedies, the betrayals, the flames. But sometimes,” she smiled, “it remembers the small things. Even that may look ever-so-small on the surface.”
His throat worked. He thought of the old woman’s quiet “Never mind,” the small hunger she’d folded and taken home.
“But that—” he tried. “I didn’t mean—”
“Intention matters, but so does impact.” ” Foxfire said. Her gaze wasn’t cruel, just very, very clear. “The Passing doesn’t only weigh your conscious choices. It also keeps the quiet ones you never realized you made.”
The Karma script for the game flickered overhead.
[ROUND ONE]:
FOXFIRE - WIN
LIN - LOSS
–3000 Karma deducted.
At the same time, Eathan received a ping in his [SYSTEM].
[SYSTEM] NOTIFICATION
Karma has decreased by 3000! (11660 → 8660)
It felt like someone had stepped on his stomach.
Chewie shot him a quick sideways look. It wasn’t judgment—just a sharp, calculating worry. Then she shifted, squaring her shoulders toward Foxfire.
“Fine,” she said. “One wrong. Two more to go.”
Foxfire’s smile curved slowly.
“Oh, I like you,” she said. “Still confident after losing a small fortune. You’re all Bai Hu’s kids, after all.”
Eathan swallowed again, pulse settling into something grimmer. The sting of the loss burned, but under it something else clicked into place.
This game wasn’t just about spotting big lies. It was about knowing the parts of himself he’d never bothered to look at.
The supervisor raised the bowl again.
“Second throw,” he announced. “Present.”
The dice left his hand.
Eathan braced himself as the world blurred. Whatever illusion came next, he’d have to face it with his eyes open.
And for the first time since stepping into the Eternal Pavilion, the thrill of the gamble cut through the fear.
Not because of the Karma Tokens at stake.
Because of who he was gambling for.