Han Yimo hadn’t expected that by taking the initiative to chat with Wen Qiaoyun to persuade her to surrender, he’d end up being the one swayed after just a few words.
He wanted to argue back, but he had to admit—Wen Qiaoyun’s reasoning was undeniably sound.
In this game, it only made sense for him to lose. How else could he explain winning against Wen Qiaoyun?
People in this world always ask how you won, but seldom ask how you lost.
“Qiaoyun-jie… I was just trying to prove my loyalty to you,” Han Yimo said. “If this is what it takes for you to believe me, then I don’t mind.”
“Good.” Wen Qiaoyun nodded. “You know I have the ability to win this game. I’m just asking you to concede now because I don’t want to push things too far.”
“Right…”
Han Yimo was about to agree when something suddenly occurred to him.
Wen Qiaoyun had guessed the coin’s outcome correctly three times in a row—but what if she was just incredibly lucky?
What if sheer luck had made him lose five rounds in a row, and then luck again let her guess right three times?
Could this all just be a bluff?
The odds were astronomically low… but what if it *had* happened?
“No… I need to test this one more time,” Han Yimo thought to himself.
Only by verifying everything could he secure his role as the protagonist.
After all, in many stories, battles of wits were still battles.
“Qiaoyun-jie,” Han Yimo said, picking up the coin from the table with a serious expression. “I need one final test. If you guess correctly this time, I’ll give you my ‘word’ directly.”
Wen Qiaoyun paused, then nodded. “Fine.”
Han Yimo gripped the coin in his palm and tossed it straight up—barely spinning—before catching it again.
“Guess!”
All expression faded from Wen Qiaoyun’s face as she stared at his hand for a few seconds. Then she spoke:
“Han Yimo, what’s the point of tossing it straight up like that?”
“Huh?”
“The coin didn’t even flip.” She shook her head flawlessly. “Toss it again. I’ll give you one more chance.”
“Oh! Right!” Realizing she was actually helping him, Han Yimo quickly adjusted his grip, pinching the coin between his thumb and forefinger before flicking it high into the air.
This time, the coin spun wildly, flipping multiple times before landing back in his palm.
Wen Qiaoyun had been watching its trajectory the entire time. As it fell, she slowly smiled.
“Qiaoyun-jie, if you guess right this time, I’ll concede without another word,” Han Yimo said.
“I guess it’s—”
“Wait!” Han Yimo suddenly slammed his hand down on the table, trapping the coin. “Now guess.”
“Tails,” Wen Qiaoyun said.
Han Yimo hadn’t expected that by taking the initiative to chat with Wen Qiaoyun, hoping to persuade her to surrender, he would end up being the one convinced after just a few exchanges.
He had intended to argue back, but he had to admit that Wen Qiaoyun’s words made perfect sense.
In this match, it only made sense for him to lose—otherwise, how could he possibly explain winning against Wen Qiaoyun?
In this world, people always ask how you won, but rarely how you lost.
“Sister Qiaoyun… I was actually trying to show my loyalty to you all,” Han Yimo said. “If this is what it takes for you to believe me, I have no objections.”
“Good,” Wen Qiaoyun nodded. “You know I have the ability to win this match. I’m only asking you to concede because I don’t want to push things too far.”
“Yes…”
Just as Han Yimo was about to agree, something suddenly occurred to him.
Although Wen Qiaoyun had correctly guessed the coin’s outcome three times in a row, was it possible she was just incredibly lucky?
Incredibly lucky to make him lose five rounds in a row, and incredibly lucky to guess correctly three times.
Could all of this just be a bluff?
The odds were extremely low… but what if it really happened?
“No… I need to test this one more time,” Han Yimo thought to himself.
Only by calculating everything clearly could he secure his position as the protagonist.
After all, in many stories, a battle of wits is still a battle.
“Sister Qiaoyun,” Han Yimo picked up the coin from the table, his expression serious. “I need to do one final test. If you guess correctly this time, I’ll give you my ‘character’ directly.”
Wen Qiaoyun paused for a moment before nodding. “Alright.”
Han Yimo gripped the coin in his palm and casually tossed it into the air. The coin barely spun, simply rising and falling straight back into his hand.
“Guess!”
All expression faded from Wen Qiaoyun’s face as she stared at Han Yimo’s hand for a few seconds before speaking. “Han Yimo, what’s the point of tossing it straight up and down like that?”
“Huh?”
“The coin didn’t even flip,” Wen Qiaoyun shook her head flawlessly. “Toss it again. I’ll give you another chance.”
“Oh, oh!” Only then did Han Yimo realize Wen Qiaoyun was doing him a favor. He quickly imitated her earlier method, pinching the coin between his thumb and index finger and flicking it high into the air.
Instantly, the coin spun wildly, flipping several times mid-air before landing back in Han Yimo’s hand.
Wen Qiaoyun had been watching the coin closely the entire time. As it fell, a slow smile spread across her face.
“Sister Qiaoyun, if you guess correctly this time, I’ll concede without another word,” Han Yimo said.
“I guess it’s…”
“Wait!” Han Yimo interrupted, slapping his hand down on the table. “Guess now.”
“It’s tails,” Wen Qiaoyun said.
Han Yimo paused slightly before lifting his hand. The coin indeed showed “乙” (tails).
“Truly impressive…” Han Yimo said. “As expected of an ancient powerhouse.”
Wen Qiaoyun finally let out a sigh of relief.
She hadn’t expected Han Yimo, as a writer, to be this foolish.
Where did it all begin?
Let’s start with this specially made coin.
One side of the coin was extremely smooth, while the other was rough.
And hanging in the center of the room was a single lamp.
When the coin was tossed under the light, the smooth side would continuously reflect the light, casting rapid circles around the room. By following those reflections, one could naturally determine how many times the coin had flipped.
The only catch was that you had to know which side was facing up before the toss. Otherwise, even knowing the number of flips would still require guessing.
So when Han Yimo tossed the coin straight from his hand, Wen Qiaoyun subtly guided him to toss it again.
Even though the coin went straight up and down, Wen Qiaoyun still wasn’t confident she could guess correctly. Only when he placed the coin between his thumb and index finger could she determine the outcome based on the number of rotations.
How could Han Yimo not notice such an obvious rule?
Was it really because of his claustrophobia, making it hard for him to notice the rapidly flickering points of light in the darkness?
But Wen Qiaoyun knew there was another crucial reason she had persuaded Han Yimo to concede.
She suspected that if the match continued, there would be no winner.
It was a strange intuition.
This intuition came from the fourth round, when both of them guessed incorrectly.
She had clearly watched the wild boar toss the coin with “heads” facing up. The coin spun twelve and a half times—it should have landed on tails. But when she guessed “tails” and Han Yimo followed suit, they lost.
Even the wild boar hesitated for a few seconds after uncovering the coin and seeing it was “heads.”
In the next round, she again closely watched the referee’s coin. “Heads” faced up as it spun, totaling nineteen rotations. The answer should have been “heads.”
But just as Wen Qiaoyun made what she thought was the correct choice, and Han Yimo followed her by choosing “heads,” she instantly sensed something was wrong and used an “Exchange Card” to swap their guesses.
They won. The answer was “tails.”
Indeed, only by avoiding Han Yimo’s choice could she truly win this match.
It was an abstract outcome—it wasn’t about what she guessed being right, but about whatever Han Yimo guessed being wrong.
There seemed to be a strange force around Han Yimo. Even if the answer was correct, the moment he made a choice, the correct answer would instantly twist into the wrong one.
It was as though some supernatural power had介入 this gamble.
But why would there be supernatural power here? Was this what they called “Echo”?
Hadn’t Chu Tianqiu said it wasn’t easy to obtain an “Echo” here… Wait.
Wen Qiaoyun suddenly understood. They were no longer in that strange black space but had moved to the external game arena.
In other words… here, everyone’s abilities could be freely unleashed.
And this supernatural intervention was most likely Han Yimo’s “Echo.”
Wen Qiaoyun had figured this out in just two rounds. She knew that from then on, Han Yimo would completely follow her choices in betting. She no longer had an “Exchange Card,” so the two of them would only keep failing, and neither would reach seven points. In other words, no one could win this game.
If she wanted to take the “character” from him, she would naturally need another method.
So Wen Qiaoyun made a quick decision. When Han Yimo called to stop the match, she immediately agreed and demonstrated three coin guesses to him. At the same time, she hinted that she had completely grasped the trick to this game. Seizing the moment when he was动摇, she persuaded him to surrender. The entire operation was smooth and seamless,完全不像是说谎.
She had thought Han Yimo might raise some fatal质疑, but he merely chose to toss the coin one more time himself.
So, in winning this so-called “coin toss,” which part actually relied on luck?
If it were truly a game of “luck,” why would they hold three cards in their hands?
Unfortunately, Han Yimo would never realize this. He just sighed in frustration and handed the “horse” character from his pocket to Wen Qiaoyun.
“I concede, Sister Qiaoyun.”
“Incredible…” he murmured. “Truly befitting of an ancient powerhouse.”
Wen Qiaoyun finally relaxed.
She hadn’t expected Han Yimo, a writer, to be this oblivious.
Where to even begin?
With the specially made coin, perhaps.
One side of the coin was polished to a mirror finish, while the other was left rough.
And the room had a single overhead light.
When the coin was tossed under the light, the smooth side would reflect the beam in rapid, sweeping circles—allowing anyone tracking the flashes to count its rotations.
But the key was knowing which side was facing up *before* the toss—otherwise, even knowing the rotations wouldn’t guarantee the outcome.
So when Han Yimo carelessly palmed the coin for his first toss, Wen Qiaoyun subtly guided him to try again.
Even though that initial toss had been nearly straight, she still couldn’t be sure—only when he held it properly between his fingers could she track the spins accurately.
Yet Han Yimo hadn’t noticed any of this.
Was it really because of his claustrophobia making him blind to the flickering reflections in the dark?
But Wen Qiaoyun had another, far more pressing reason for persuading Han Yimo to surrender:
She suspected that if the game continued, *neither* of them would win.
A strange intuition had struck her during the fourth round, when they both guessed wrong.
She had watched clearly as the referee tossed a ‘heads’-up coin—spinning exactly twelve and a half times, which should’ve landed on *tails*. But when she called ‘tails’ and Han Yimo followed suit, they lost.
Even the referee had hesitated for a few seconds upon revealing ‘heads’.
The next round, she scrutinized the toss again: ‘heads’ up, nineteen full spins—’heads’ again.
Yet the moment she confidently chose ‘heads’, and Han Yimo copied her, she instantly felt something was off. She used her ‘Swap Card’ at the last second—and won. The answer was ‘tails’.
The pattern was clear: the only way to win was to *avoid* Han Yimo’s choice.
It wasn’t about what *she* guessed—it was that whatever Han Yimo chose would be wrong.
There seemed to be some unnatural force acting through him, warping the correct answer into a mistake the moment he picked it.
As if some supernatural power had infiltrated this gamble.
But why would there be supernatural interference here? Was this what they called an ‘Echo’?
Chu Tianqiu had said gaining an ‘Echo’ in this place wasn’t easy… Wait.
Wen Qiaoyun realized: they weren’t in that strange black space anymore. They were outside, in the game’s actual arena.
Meaning… *anyone’s* abilities could manifest freely here.
And this unnatural interference was likely Han Yimo’s ‘Echo’ at work.
Wen Qiaoyun had pieced it together in just two rounds. She knew that if the game continued, Han Yimo would blindly follow her choices—and with no ‘Swap Cards’ left, they’d just keep losing indefinitely. Neither would reach seven points.
If she wanted his ‘word’, she’d need another approach.
So she seized the moment when Han Yimo paused the game, agreed immediately, and demonstrated her ‘coin-guessing prowess’ three times—all while subtly convincing him she’d mastered the game’s trick. When his resolve wavered, she struck with her persuasion.
Every step was flawlessly executed, leaving no room for doubt.
She’d braced for some fatal objection, but Han Yimo’s only counter was… tossing the coin himself one more time.
So in this so-called ‘game of luck’, where exactly had luck played a role?
If it truly were just luck, why did they even have three special cards to begin with?
But Han Yimo would never grasp that layer. With a resigned sigh, he pulled the ‘Horse’ character from his pocket and handed it over.
“I concede, Qiaoyun-jie.”
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