Zero Logic: The Hunter Gambits

Chapter 07. A World of Numbers

"AARGHHH!"

Oliver’s scream died in his throat, surfacing only as a long, agonizing groan. He clawed at the left side of his face, his nails digging into his skin until it bled. It didn't feel like laser surgery. It felt as if someone had poured molten lead directly into his eye socket, letting it boil before it froze instantly.

The world around him spun. The cold marble floor of The Purgatory felt as though it were undulating like the deck of a ship in a storm.

"Breathe, Mr. Warner. Don't die just yet. If you die in the lobby, I’ll have to pay for extra cleaning fees." The voice of Vork, the goblin concierge, sounded distant and echoing.

Oliver panted, tears reflexively streaming from his right eye. His left eye remained clamped shut, throbbing wildly in sync with a heart pumping pure adrenaline.

"Bastard..." Oliver hissed, spittle dripping onto the floor. "You said... it would hurt... but you didn't say it would feel like a drill in my brain!"

"Knowledge is expensive, sir," Vork replied casually. "And ocular skills are among the most invasive. The System must graft new optic nerves into your visual cortex, bridging biology with data. A little friction is only natural."

Slowly, the searing heat began to recede, replaced by an odd, cooling sensation. It felt as if an ice cube had been placed behind his eyeball.

"Open your eyes," Vork commanded. "Behold your new world."

Oliver swallowed hard. He was afraid. He was afraid he was blind. Hesitantly, he peeled back his left eyelid.

Blink. Once. Twice.

The world was not dark. But the world was no longer the same.

"Holy shit..." Oliver whispered.

The view before him was no longer a mere optical image. The grand casino hall was now overlaid with a complex Augmented Reality interface. Oliver looked at Vork. He didn't just see an old goblin in a sharp suit. Above Vork’s head, rows of neon green numbers and text flickered.

[NAME: VORK (ELITE GOBLIN)]

[THREAT LEVEL: C+]

[MOOD: BORED / CONTEMPTUOUS]

[PROBABILITY OF GIVING A DISCOUNT: 0%]

[PROBABILITY OF BACKSTABBING: 15%]

Oliver turned toward the two Golem sentries at the gate.

[ENTITY: STONE GOLEM]

[STRUCTURAL WEAKNESS: RIGHT KNEE & BACK OF THE NECK]

[HP: 100%]

Everywhere Oliver looked, data flooded his brain. The gambling tables, the chandeliers, the bottles of whiskey—everything had statistics. Probability of falling, probability of breaking, resale value, danger levels. The world was no longer an abstract oil painting. It had become a naked mathematical sketch.

"Dizzy..." Oliver gripped his head again. The information was too much. "How do I turn this off? It’s like watching a stock market crash inside my head."

"You will learn to filter it," Vork said. "Or your brain will melt from information overload. The choice is yours."

Vork snapped his ledger shut. "Visiting hours are over, Mr. Warner. You have your new toy. Now, please leave. Other guests are waiting."

Oliver wanted to protest, but he saw the numbers above Vork’s head shift.

[MOOD: ANNOYED -> ANGRY]

[PROBABILITY OF CALLING SECURITY: 95%]

"Okay, okay, I’m going," Oliver said quickly, reaching for his cane.

He walked haltingly toward the exit, passing through the slot machine portal. As he stepped through, the sensation of vertigo struck again, pulling him from the luxury of hell back to the stench of the restrooms at The Rusty Spade.

LOCATION: DOWNTOWN LAS VEGAS

TIME: 04:30 AM

TIME REMAINING: 139 HOURS 45 MINUTES

Oliver stepped out of the grimy casino, inhaling the cold dawn air. Frank, his loyal driver, was still waiting in the Rolls Royce, asleep with his mouth open. Oliver tapped the window with his cane.

"Wake up, Frank. Let's get some food."

Frank jolted awake, rubbing his greasy face. "Boss? You... you look different."

"Different how?" Oliver asked as he climbed into the car. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His left eye now had a faint golden glint in the iris, a sharp contrast to the dark brown of his right eye.

"I don't know. More... scary," Frank answered honestly. "Where are we eating? Your usual French spot doesn't open until ten."

Oliver felt his stomach churn. The hunger he had felt since waking up in the hospital was intensifying. But this time, he wanted to test something. He wanted to test the "tax" he had paid to The Butcher.

"Nothing fancy," Oliver said. "Find the nearest twenty-four-hour diner. I want a burger. The greasiest, filthiest, cheesiest burger you can find."

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in Sal’s Diner, a roadside joint with flickering neon lights and waitresses who looked like they lived on coffee. Before Oliver sat a Double Bacon Cheeseburger with a mountain of oily fries. The smell—or at least what Oliver remembered as the smell—should have been mouth-watering. Grilled meat, melted cheese, pickles.

Across from him, Frank was already devouring pancakes.

"Eat, Boss. You need your strength," Frank said with his mouth full.

Oliver stared at the burger. His ocular system provided an analysis he hadn't asked for.

[OBJECT: LOW-QUALITY BURGER]

[CALORIES: 1,200 KCAL]

[PROBABILITY OF FOOD POISONING: 12%]

[COMPOSITION: BEEF (60%), FLOUR (30%), SATURATED FAT (10%)]

"Shut up," Oliver whispered to his system.

He picked up the burger with both hands. He took a massive bite. He chewed. And then he stopped.

Oliver chewed again, slowly. His eyes widened, then narrowed, then grew watery.

There was no taste. Absolutely none.

He could feel the texture. The soft bun, the fibrous meat, the crunch of the pickles. He could feel the temperature. The meat was hot, the tomatoes were cold. But the flavor? Zero. No savoriness from the beef. No saltiness from the cheese. No sweetness from the sauce. It was as if he were chewing a wad of wet paper towels dipped in warm water. It was utterly bland.

Oliver swallowed the mouthful with great effort. It felt like swallowing a bitter pill, though he couldn't even taste the bitterness.

"How is it, Boss? Good?" Frank asked.

Oliver set the burger back on the plate with a trembling hand. He picked up his glass of black coffee and took a sip. It was the same. Just hot, black water. No aroma of coffee, no bitter kick.

"Frank..." Oliver’s voice shook. "Do you... do you think this burger is good?"

"It’s great, Boss! Greasy, but good," Frank replied innocently.

Oliver looked down at the burger as if it were his mortal enemy. Tears of frustration pricked his eyes. For a man who lived for earthly pleasures—fine food, expensive drinks, premium cigars—this was hell. He had just sold one of the very reasons he wanted to live.

"It tastes like ash, Frank," Oliver said quietly, pushing the plate away. "It tastes like I’m eating a corpse."

"Sorry, Boss. Should we find somewhere else?"

"No." Oliver shook his head. He picked up the burger again. "I have to eat. I need the calories. If I don't eat, I die. I’m eating this not because I want to, but because I have to."

With a flat, expressionless face, Oliver forced himself to eat the tasteless burger. Every bite was mental torture. He ate like a robot refueling its soul. This was the price of power. This was the house tax.

After the last bite, Oliver wiped his mouth. He felt physically full, but his soul was starving.

"Let’s go," Oliver said, tossing a hundred-dollar bill onto the table. "This place is depressing me."

They walked out toward the empty parking lot behind the diner. The Las Vegas sky was beginning to show streaks of orange at the horizon. However, as Oliver reached for the car door, the System in his left eye suddenly flashed red. Not a normal red, but an aggressive, warning crimson.

[WARNING: THREAT DETECTED]

[NUMBER OF ENEMIES: 3]

[DIRECTION: 9, 3, AND 6 O'CLOCK]

"Frank, get down!" Oliver yelled.

Bang!

A bullet shattered the car window exactly where Oliver’s head had been a second ago. Glass shards sprayed everywhere. Frank shrieked in shock and dropped to the asphalt.

"Hey! Hand over the wallet and the keys, rich boy!"

Three men emerged from the shadows. They wore grimy hoodies and ski masks. Two held folding knives, while one held a cheap revolver. Common street thugs. City trash looking for an easy mark in the early hours. They saw a luxury car, a limping old man, and a heavy-set driver. An easy target. At least, that’s what they thought.

Oliver crouched behind the body of the Rolls Royce. His heart raced, but this time, it wasn't out of fear. This time, he saw the world differently. He peeked out slightly. His eye scanned the three thugs. And the world slowed down.

[TARGET A (GUN)]

[STRESS LEVEL: 85% (HANDS TREMBLING)]

[ACCURACY: 15%]

[WEAKNESS: INDEX FINGER TOO TENSE ON TRIGGER]

[TARGET B (LEFT KNIFE)]

[DISTANCE: 5 METERS]

[RUNNING SPEED: 12 KM/H]

[WEAKNESS: OLD INJURY IN LEFT KNEE]

[TARGET C (RIGHT KNIFE)]

[DISTANCE: 4 METERS]

[WEAKNESS: VISION BLOCKED BY LAMP POST]

"Frank," Oliver whispered. "Get your gun from the compartment."

"I can't, Boss! The door is jammed from the inside by glass!" Frank panicked.

"Fine. I’ll handle it." Oliver took a breath. He gripped his cane. An ebony wood stick with a heavy silver handle.

"Boss, don't be crazy! They have a gun!"

Oliver stood up. He didn't look afraid. He looked bored. It was the same look he gave Henderson at the poker table.

"Hey, bums!" Oliver shouted. "Do you know how much that car window costs? It’s more than the price of all your organs combined."

"Shut up!" The thug with the gun (Target A) aimed at Oliver. They were about ten meters apart.

The System in Oliver’s eye drew a virtual trajectory. A red line showed exactly where the bullet would go based on the barrel's angle and the shooter's tremors. The line pointed at Oliver’s left shoulder.

[SHOT PREDICTION: 2.5 SECONDS]

[EVASION SUGGESTION: SHIFT RIGHT 30 CM]

Oliver waited. He saw the thug’s finger squeeze the trigger. Now.

Oliver stepped casually to the right, as if merely stretching his legs.

Bang!

The bullet hissed past the spot where Oliver’s shoulder had been half a second prior. It slammed into a trash can behind him. Clang!

The thug gaped. "What? How did I miss?"

"You shoot like you’re masturbating. Your hands are shaking," Oliver mocked. "Try again. But this time, look at your friend."

The other two thugs (Target B and C) charged at Oliver with their knives. Oliver focused on Target B.

[WEAK POINT: LEFT KNEE]

[PROBABILITY OF FRACTURE: 98% IF STRUCK WITH 50 NEWTONS OF FORCE]

Oliver didn't retreat. He waited for Target B to enter his range. As the thug swung his knife, Oliver ducked slightly—a minimal movement to conserve energy—and jabbed the tip of his cane with surgical precision directly into the man’s left kneecap.

Crack!

The sound of breaking bone was crisp. The thug screamed, his leg buckling in the wrong direction, and he fell face-first into the asphalt.

Target C came from the side, trying to gut Oliver. Oliver tracked the knife’s path.

[TRAJECTORY: UPWARD ARC]

[COUNTER-ATTACK: ELBOW TO JAW]

But Oliver realized his body was too weak for a physical brawl. If he used his elbow, his own bone might crack. He needed another way. Oliver’s eye caught the reflection of the streetlamp in the car’s side mirror.

[ENVIRONMENTAL OPTION: LIGHT REFLECTION]

[PROBABILITY OF TEMPORARY BLINDNESS: 90%]

Oliver tilted the polished silver head of his cane, catching the streetlamp’s glare and reflecting it directly into Target C’s eyes.

"Argh! My eyes!" The thug was blinded, reflexively covering his face and stopping his attack.

The opening was enough. Oliver swung his cane with all his remaining strength, striking the thug’s wrist. The knife flew away. Oliver kicked the man in the groin with what little power he had left. Target C collapsed, rolling around while clutching his ruined future.

Only one remained. Target A, the gunman. He was shaking violently, watching his two friends fall in less than ten seconds to a limping man.

"Demon..." the thug muttered. He aimed the pistol again, this time holding it with both hands.

Oliver’s system showed the red line again. This time, it pointed directly at his chest.

[PROBABILITY OF EVASION: 10%]

[HIGH DANGER]

The distance was too great for a cane strike. Oliver’s body was too exhausted for a quick dodge.

"Frank!" Oliver yelled. "High beams! Now!"

Frank, huddled in the car, slammed the light switch. The incredibly bright LED high beams of the Rolls Royce flared to life, blinding the shooter instantly. The thug flinched, his shot flying wild into the sky.

Oliver picked up a stone from the ground.

[PROBABILITY OF HEADSHOT THROW: 65%]

[CALIBRATION: 2 KNOT WEST WIND, 45-DEGREE ANGLE]

Oliver threw the stone.

Thwack!

It struck the thug’s forehead perfectly. He stumbled back and lost consciousness.

Oliver stood in the middle of the parking lot, his breath coming in short bursts. Three opponents down. He didn't have a single scratch.

"Incredible..." Frank climbed out of the car, mouth agape. "Boss... where did you learn kung fu? That was like a Jackie Chan movie!"

Oliver leaned against the hood of the car, his legs trembling from the post-action exhaustion. He gave a thin smile.

"It wasn't kung fu, Frank. It was Statistics. Stupid people are always predictable."

Oliver felt powerful. His new eye was extraordinary. He was invincible. But that arrogance was shattered in an instant.

Suddenly, the System in his eye changed color. From green to deep, blood red. It wasn't like the red from the thugs. This was a crimson that flashed rapidly, accompanied by a siren wailing in his head.

[WARNING: APEX PREDATOR DETECTED]

[DISTANCE: 100 METERS]

[APPROACH SPEED: 80 KM/H]

Oliver looked toward the roof of the building across the street. There stood a silhouette. Not a human. The figure was tall and gaunt, with bat-like wings folded against its back. Its eyes glowed a hellish red.

The system generated a tag above the creature’s head. And for the first time, Oliver saw numbers that made him want to run as fast as possible.

[TARGET: FERAL VAMPIRE (LEVEL 2)]

[NAME: UNKNOWN]

[HP: 100%]

[PROBABILITY OF OLIVER WINNING: 0%]

[PROBABILITY OF OLIVER ESCAPING: 0.01%]

The creature smirked, baring long fangs. It knew Oliver saw it. In a heartbeat, the creature leaped from the building, diving toward them like a living missile.

"Frank," Oliver whispered, his face deathly pale. "Get in the car and floor it if you still value your life."

"But Boss—"

"GET IN!" Oliver screamed.

Because this time, the math said they were both dead.