Blackstone Code-Chapter 401: Take a Gamble

The bright room was filled with a strange, heavy odor—a mix of perfume, cigarette smoke, and cologne. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but not entirely foul either; there was still a faint scent beneath the stench.

As dusk began to settle outside, Richard wasn’t the confident, triumphant player he had expected to be. Instead, his brow was tightly furrowed.

His chip box had gone empty three times already. This was his fourth time exchanging chips—each time for two thousand Sol. In a short span, he’d exchanged eight thousand Sol worth of chips, and the pile in front of him looked like it wouldn’t last much longer.

He glanced down at the three cards before him. The cigarette smoke drifting from his lips stung his eyes, making him blink and rub them. He swallowed hard, feeling a sore throat.

Taking a quick sip from his glass, he slammed it down on the cards.

“Mr. Richard, aren’t you going to look?” a gentleman with a refined air asked casually. He picked up his own three cards, glanced at them quickly, then covered them again and tossed a few black chips into the pot. “Raise, two hundred.”

“More than trusting my instincts, I trust my eyes!” he said kindly, but Richard saw it as a trap—a calculated move.

In this game, peeking at your cards wasn’t wise. Most hands involved only small cards.

Getting three cards that formed a strong hand wasn’t easy; usually, players had weak hands.

Weak hands meant immense pressure when looking at cards. Even if your opponent’s hand was weaker, you’d hesitate, afraid.

Fearlessness comes from ignorance fit perfectly here. By not looking at his cards and trusting he’d catch a strong hand, the pressure shifted onto those who did look.

Sometimes, you didn’t even need to reveal your cards. Simply calling bets could force the peeking players to fold.

Folding meant giving up—a player would discard their hand, conceding the round and forfeiting any chips they’d put in.

The betting circle went on. Some folded; some called. The turn came back to Richard.

He pursed his lips, pushed a one-hundred-Sol chip into the pot, and said, “Call…”

“Our friend seems confident!” teased the player opposite him with a smile.

The betting rounds continued, shrinking from five players to four, then three…

“Another box of chips, please,” Richard said, reaching for the chip box only to find it empty. He signed another check and handed it to the waiter.

The chips arrived quickly—two thousand Sol’ worth. Those small, round tokens represented wealth in this place—almost magical.

Hesitating for a moment, he tossed a thousand Sol into the pot with a slight, bitter sneer. “Hundreds are too slow. A thousand.”

With three players left, the game couldn’t end. Whether Richard’s taunt worked or his reckless betting—without even looking at his cards—made others hesitate, his neighbor folded. Ȓἁ₦օ𐌱ƐⱾ

That meant losing thousands in chips. The player shook his head, discarded his cards, and sighed.

The man opposite Richard glanced at the mountain of chips in the center and quietly said, “This is scary. I think it’s time to stop.”

He pushed all his chips into the pot, ending the round. Richard no longer had to bet. Both players revealed their hands.

The opponent casually flipped his cards. “A pair, Mr. Richard!”

“Now it’s time for our blind man to perform!”

Blind man referred to Richard’s face-down cards. Revealed cards were normal, visible; unrevealed ones were blind, unseen.

Richard held his cards with elbows on the table, head down, leaning close. In an awkward, tense motion, he flipped the first card, then the second, then the third.

A classic curse burst from his lips. He slammed the cards on the table. He had a pair too, but the smallest pair. He lost.

After more than three hours that afternoon, he had lost nine thousand Sol, breaking his own record for the fastest losing streak. Irritated, he reached for a cigarette but found his pack empty.

“Give me a pack!” He crushed the empty box in his hand and threw it to the floor, anger fueled by his losses.

Just as the waiter was about to fetch cigarettes, Richard stopped him. “Never mind, I’ll buy my own. Take my chips away.”

No cigarettes or alcohol were sold here—they were free for guests, courtesy of the house owner.

Strict Federation laws meant only licensed establishments could sell tobacco and alcohol, and those licenses carried higher taxes.

Richard stepped outside; the hot breeze cooled his temper. Suddenly, he realized he’d been too impulsive.

Definitely too impulsive. If he had peeked at his cards a few rounds earlier, even if he lost, it wouldn’t have been this much.

The continuous losses had rattled him. By the last round, he wasn’t playing cards—he was gambling on luck against others.

But as the man opposite him said, “Those with eyes aren’t afraid of the blind.” Losing was inevitable.

“A pack of cigarettes…” he said, entering a shop and pointing to his preferred brand. He paid and lit a cigarette at the door.

One drag brought a wave of restless irritation through his chest. After two puffs, he tossed the cigarette to the ground.

On his way back, he lit another. His hand trembled—today’s losses were heavy.

Since he’d become obsessed with this card game, his losses always outpaced his winnings, even though he suspected something wasn’t right.

Sometimes he won big—ten, twenty thousand Sol—but recently, losses piled up.

He’d even started dipping into company funds to cover his personal shortfalls—just a part of it.

For someone driven by money, skimming off the top wasn’t difficult—and this wasn’t his first time.

Back in Kurland City, he’d tried small tricks right under Lynch’s nose.

His method was simple: company auctions had printed catalogs listing items and starting bids.

He’d identify customers eager for certain goods but short on cash, privately trading with them.

He’d find ways to obtain those items, sell them for profit, then buy cheap substitutes with insiders to replace them.

He’d then arrange returns citing quality issues.

This method was subtle. Even if investigated, it would only appear as returns due to quality issues—no one would suspect anything else.

Richard had considered manipulating the accounts directly but abandoned the idea because it was too difficult.

Every city had at least two accountants, all under Vera’s control, making it nearly impossible to bribe them both. Compared to tampering with accounts, his current method was more effective.

However, it wasn’t foolproof. Too many valuable items being returned due to quality problems raised suspicion at headquarters.

If they sent someone to investigate thoroughly, Richard, as the local manager, wouldn’t escape blame. So, he had to deal with those faulty goods.

The only way was to lower their prices. This was one issue Vera noticed: auctions here rarely had large leftover stock, but sales prices didn’t match headquarters’ valuations, causing unexpected revenue drops.

There were no obvious loopholes—starting bids and final prices were transparent. Aside from total revenue declines, no major issues were visible.

This scheme worked fine before when secondhand auctions were new and weekly sales kept hitting new highs.

But as the auctions continued, interest waned. Previously, missing ten or twenty thousand per week went unnoticed—thirty-one or thirty-three thousand wasn’t much difference.

Now with lower turnover, big discrepancies were easier to detect. Last week, Richard skimmed over fourteen thousand. Another move risked exposure.

Still, he had no choice. His mansion, luxury cars, entourage, and socializing with local elites required money, especially with his growing gambling addiction.

Back inside the room, Richard made a decision: today would be his last gambling session this month. Win or lose, if he lost another five thousand, he’d leave immediately. He was determined.

He entered the room and was surprised to see an unfamiliar figure sitting at the table with his back turned.

Richard disliked strangers joining mid-game—it disrupted his luck. Cards meant for him might be dealt to others, lowering his chances.

But this wasn’t his turf, and he had no right to complain. All he could do was leave—he had lost enough already.

As he asked the waiter for the bill, the man sitting with his back to him suddenly spoke, “Not going to play one more hand before you leave?”

Hearing that voice, Richard froze.

It was…

Lynch!