Zero Logic: The Hunter Gambits

Chapter 06. The Economy of Souls

The moment Oliver stepped through the golden gates of The Purgatory, the first thing that hit him wasn't the visual opulence, but the noise.

It wasn't the cacophony of slot machines or drunken cheers found in human casinos. This was a low-frequency roar, a constant hum that vibrated through his ribs. It was the sound of thousands of souls being wagered, won, or obliterated in a matter of minutes.

"Incredible," Oliver muttered, his eyes sweeping across the expanse.

The scale of the room was nonsensical. It was perhaps three times the size of a football field, with a ceiling that seemed to vanish into a swirling purple mist. High above, VIP balconies drifted without supports, where winged entities sat looking down like bored deities.

On the main floor, hundreds of gambling tables were scattered about. There were roulette wheels with spinning balls of fire. Baccarat tables where the cards were made of thin metal sheets. Dice games where the dice were thrown by stone giants.

Oliver limped forward with his cane, feeling like an ant lost in a dance of giants. He watched as a man, an ordinary human like himself, was forcibly dragged from a poker table by two armored orc guards.

"Please! Give me one more chance!" the man shrieked hysterically. "I still have a kidney! Take my left kidney!"

"Your kidneys are ruined by alcohol, filth," one of the orcs growled. "You lost. Your soul belongs to the House now."

The man screamed as his body suddenly dissolved into white smoke, sucked into a giant red chip held by the dealer. The dealer, a blue-skinned woman with four arms, simply smiled coldly and stacked the chip with her other winnings.

Oliver swallowed hard. His throat felt parched.

Okay, Oliver, don't become a chip. Do not become a chip.

He had to focus. He needed capital and an upgrade.

[SYSTEM ALERT]

[SHOP MENU OPENED]

[PLEASE SELECT UPGRADES FOR SURVIVAL]

A pop-up window appeared in Oliver’s vision. A list of merchandise scrolled rapidly.

[Regeneration Potion (Low): 100 Soul Coins]

[Holy Silver Bullets (x10): 50 Soul Coins]

[Toxin Immunity (Passive): 5 Years of Life]

[Probability Sight (Lv.1): 10 Years of Life]

Oliver stopped at the last item.

Probability Sight. The ability to see the odds. That was it. That was what he needed. With that, he could manipulate situations, avoid danger, and most importantly, win any game of chance.

But the price was steep.

10 Years of Life.

Oliver glanced at his remaining time in the corner of his screen.

[140 HOURS 10 MINUTES]

Less than six days.

The mathematics were simple and brutal. He was destitute in this world. He was a beggar who couldn't even afford a bottle of water.

"I need to exchange currency," Oliver muttered. "I have fifty million dollars in a Swiss bank. There has to be an exchange rate."

He spotted a cashier’s cage on the left side of the hall. A long desk was manned by a bloated creature with the face of a pig, dressed in a gold suit. The creature was counting stacks of shimmering coins.

Oliver approached, trying to look confident despite his trembling legs.

"Hey, Boss Hog," Oliver greeted, sliding his Centurion Black Card onto the marble counter. "I want to buy some chips. Run this. The limit is unlimited."

The pig-faced creature, whom Oliver assumed was the Banker, stopped counting. He stared at the black plastic card, then at Oliver. He snorted, hot steam billowing from his wet snout.

"Plastic?" The Banker’s voice was heavy and slimy. He flicked Oliver’s card with a finger. It clattered to the floor. "We do not accept human trash here. Dollars? Euros? Crypto? Those are just scraps of paper and fictional numbers you created to feel powerful."

"That’s real money, idiot!" Oliver’s temper flared. "You could buy an island with that card!"

"In here," the Banker leaned in, his breath smelling of rotting meat, "the currency is Essence, time, souls, talent, and things that are real. Things that, once lost, cannot be printed in a factory again."

The Banker pointed at Oliver with a finger laden with jeweled rings.

"You have 140 hours remaining. That is worth about... half a copper coin. Not even enough to tip the restroom attendant."

Oliver stood frozen. His ego had been dealt a staggering blow. All this time, he thought money was everything. At a higher level of existence, he was nothing more than a panhandler.

"So I can’t play?" Oliver asked coldly.

"Oh, you can play," the Banker’s grin widened. "There is always a table for the desperate. Look for Sektor D. The 'Barter' tables. There, you can wager anything attached to your body. Hands, feet, eyes... or perhaps your fondest memories?"

The Banker roared with laughter, his neck fat wobbling. "Go on, human. Before I get bored and turn you into a snack."

Oliver retrieved his credit card from the floor. He stared at it for a moment, then snapped it in two. It was useless.

He turned and walked toward Sector D as directed. The area was darker, grimier, and thick with cigar smoke. There, he saw sights that turned his stomach. An elf was wagering his pointed ears at a dice table. A human, perhaps another hunter, was weeping as he handed his own eyeball to his opponent.

"Insanity," Oliver whispered. "This isn't a casino. It’s a slaughterhouse."

But he had no choice. He needed ten years of life, or the equivalent value, to buy the skill. If not, he would be dead within days.

Oliver scanned the tables. He looked for the right opponent. In gambling, choosing the player is just as important as the cards you hold. You don't challenge the calm ones. You challenge the emotional, the greedy, or the arrogant.

Oliver’s eyes landed on a blackjack table in the corner. There was only one player. A massive demon with deep red skin and a broken horn. He wore a butcher’s apron stained with dried blood. Around his neck hung a necklace made of preserved human fingers.

They called him The Butcher.

In front of him sat a mountain of Soul Coins. He had just defeated his opponent, a dwarf, who now lay unconscious on the floor without his hands. The Butcher was laughing while chomping on a thick cigar. He looked bored and superior.

"Perfect," Oliver whispered.

Oliver approached and pulled out the chair across from The Butcher. The sound of the chair legs scraping against the marble made the demon look up.

"Fresh meat, it seems," The Butcher sneered, smoke curling through his black teeth. He looked at Oliver with utter disdain. "You look... expired, human. What are you doing at my table? Want to sell a kidney? Your kidneys must reek of booze."

"I’m not selling organs, fatty," Oliver replied calmly, resting his cane beside his chair. "I’m here to take all your coins."

The Butcher laughed thunderously, slamming the table so hard the chips jumped.

"Ha! Such guts for a walking corpse! What stakes do you have? I don't play for pocket change."

Oliver looked at the System in his vision. He checked the asset value of his body. His right hand? High value, but he needed it to play. Eyes? Too risky. Feet? One was already ruined.

He needed something valuable but not vital for survival in a fight. Something that made life worth living but could be sacrificed for the sake of staying alive.

Oliver looked at The Butcher’s cigar. He imagined the taste of the tobacco. He imagined the taste of expensive whiskey. A wagyu steak.

"I don't have coins," Oliver said flatly. He placed both hands on the table, staring directly into the demon’s eyes. "I wager my Sense of Taste. Permanently."

The Butcher stopped laughing. He tilted his head, intrigued.

"Sense of taste? Hmm... interesting. Rarely does anyone wager that." The demon licked his lips. "Imagine, human. If you lose... you will never again taste the sweetness of sugar, the saltiness of the sea, or the bitterness of coffee. Your life will become ash. Food will be nothing but texture on your tongue. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Oliver said, though his heart hammered. For a hedonist like him, losing taste was its own form of hell. "The value?"

The Butcher tapped the table. A golden scale appeared magically. On one side of the scale, a glowing tongue icon appeared. On the other, The Butcher tossed a massive stack of coins.

"The value is equivalent to... fifteen years of life," The Butcher said. "Enough to buy that skill you're eyeing, isn't it? I know what you want. Your eyes are hungry."

"Deal," Oliver said.

"One hand of Blackjack," The Butcher declared. "Standard Purgatory rules. Winner takes all."

The dealer, a faceless mechanical wooden doll, began to shuffle. The sound of the cards was deafening in Oliver’s ears.

"Deal them," Oliver commanded.

The cards slid out. Oliver’s first card: Queen of Clubs. (Value 10). Good. Oliver’s second card: Three of Hearts. (Total 13). The unlucky number.

The Butcher’s face-up card: King of Diamonds. (Value 10). The Butcher’s face-down card: A mystery.

"Thirteen," The Butcher mocked. "A wretched number. Against my ten, do you want to hit or stand?"

Oliver stared at the cards. The statistics in his head whirled. If The Butcher’s hidden card was a ten or an ace, he lost. If Oliver hit, the probability of busting was extremely high given the number of high cards in the deck.

But Oliver saw something. Not in the cards, but in The Butcher’s hand.

The demon was tapping his fingers on the table in a specific pattern. Each time he tapped, the ring on his ring finger glowed faintly. Very faintly.

He’s cheating, Oliver thought. There was magic in that ring. He was manipulating the next card.

Oliver gave a thin smile. He had no magical skills. He didn't have Probability Sight. Not yet. But he had twenty years of experience reading cheats at the table.

The Butcher looked relaxed. That meant he knew the next card would make Oliver lose. The next card was either a high card to make him bust or a uselessly low one.

"I..." Oliver gripped his cards. "I’m going to double down."

The Butcher’s eyes went wide. "Are you mad? You have thirteen. If you double down, you only get one more card and the stakes are doubled. You have no assets to pay the double!"

"I also wager my Sense of Smell," Oliver added recklessly. "Taste and Smell. A package deal. If I lose, I’ll be a walking corpse that can’t even smell your rot."

A crowd began to gather. Vampires, demons, and other monsters pressed in. A mad wager always drew an audience.

"Ha! You’re asking for death!" The Butcher threw another stack of coins. "Accepted! One card for you!"

The dealer slid one more card to Oliver. It remained face down. Oliver didn't open it immediately. He looked at The Butcher.

"You know, fatty," Oliver said softly. "You thought you’d cheat by giving me a bad card. You thought this card would end me."

The Butcher smirked. He knew the card was an eight.

13 + 8 = 21.

Wait. 21?

The Butcher’s face turned pale, or rather, a deep purple. He realized he had miscalculated. He had intended to give Oliver a nine to make him bust at twenty-two, but he had bungled the deck manipulation in his greed to see Oliver raise the stakes.

"Open the card!" The Butcher screamed in panic.

Oliver flipped the card slowly.

Eight of Spades.

13 + 8 = 21. Blackjack.

"Blackjack," Oliver said flatly. "Now show yours. Unless you have twenty-one as well, this is all mine."

The Butcher trembled. He flipped his hidden card. A five. Total fifteen. He had to hit. The next card came out: a King.

15 + 10 = 25. Bust.

"NO!" The Butcher roared. He slammed the table until it snapped in half. "YOU CHEATED! YOU FILTHY HUMAN!"

"Mathematics never lies, Boss," Oliver stood up, gathering the glowing coins. "And you were too arrogant to realize you messed up your own deck."

[TRANSACTION COMPLETE]

[RECEIVED: 200 SOUL COINS]

[CONVERSION VALUE: SUFFICIENT TO PURCHASE 'EYE OF TRUTH SKILL']

But the victory didn't taste sweet. As Oliver touched the coins, he felt a strange sensation in his tongue. Suddenly, his mouth felt numb, like he’d been injected with dental anesthesia.

"Wait..." Oliver touched his lips. "I won, didn't I? Why is my tongue numb?"

The mechanical dealer spoke in a stiff voice. "The House Tax, sir. At The Butcher’s table, the winner must still pay an entry f*e. The entry f*e is 10% of the initial wager."

Oliver gaped. "You mean... I still lost part of my sense of taste?"

"Only a small portion," the dealer said. "You can still taste sweet and salty. But bitter, sour, and savory... those have been taken as tax."

Oliver looked at The Butcher, who was being dragged away by security for his outburst. The demon laughed manically.

"Enjoy your bland food, human! Hahaha!"

Oliver pocketed his coins. He had won. He was wealthy. He could buy the skill. But as he swallowed his own saliva, it tasted like nothing. Like swallowing tap water.

"Dammit," Oliver whispered. "This place is truly merciless."

He walked toward the System Shop.

"Okay, System. Buy the damn eye. I want to see the world for what it really is."

[PURCHASE PROCESSING...]

[INSTALLING SKILL: PROBABILITY SIGHT (LV.1)]

[WARNING: THIS PROCESS WILL BE PAINFUL.]

Oliver’s left eye suddenly felt hot, as if a white-hot nail were being driven into his pupil. He screamed silently, falling to his knees in the middle of the opulent casino floor. The world went dark.

Then, the numbers began to appear.