"You are..."

Rat King Sam, who had been about to leave, halted and looked across the table at the man.

The black tailcoat was now folded over one arm, revealing a snug gray waistcoat and crisp white shirt—both clearly tailored by the best hands, cut to fit his frame perfectly and making his tall figure seem even larger.

Beneath the brim of his hat was a sharply defined face with the cold, deep lines of a Northern Slav, but with a pair of rare, clear pale-blue eyes unusual even among Slavs.

Yet under the shadow of the hat, it was hard to tell what lay behind those eyes.

"Bruce Wayne."

The man pressed the brim of his hat and gave a courteous nod.

"Good evening, the esteemed Mr. Sam."

"Bruce Wayne?"

Sam frowned as he rolled the name around. He’d been running in the Lower City for years—anyone with any standing, he knew. But he’d never heard this name before. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Just some greenhorn who’d heard of him and come sniffing # Nоvеlight # around?

"Sorry, I’m resting tonight."

Sam waved dismissively. "Go find someone else to play with."

"Is that so?"

Muen sighed in regret. "That’s a shame. I’d heard the famous Mr. Sam was a master gambler, so I went to the trouble of bringing some extra chips."

He opened the silver case, and with a crisp cascade, exquisitely made chips poured out, piling into a small mountain on the table.

A full ten million Emil’s worth—ten thousand chips in total. No one could tell how they’d fit in such a small case, but when they spilled out and covered nearly half the table, the visual impact was undeniable.

All at once, every gaze in the casino turned their way, a few exclamations thrown in like gawking at a wealthy eccentric.

"Since Mr. Sam has no time, I suppose I’ll just—"

"Wait!"

Sam abruptly sat back down, his eyes glinting like a rat spotting cheese.

"Who says I’ve no time?"

"But—"

"No buts."

This time, as his eyes swept over Muen, he caught the luxurious gold-thread embroidery on that black coat.

Something clicked in his mind, and he arched a brow.

"You’re not from Belrand—you’re from the Northern Territories?"

"You saw through me that quickly? As expected of the Rat King spoken of in every alley."

Muen removed his hat, revealing short, striking silver-white hair, and smiled.

"I am indeed from the Northern Territories. I only just came to Belrand, to see the world."

"No wonder..."

Sam’s gaze heated, his tongue flicking across his lips.

The Northern Territories were rich in rare minerals—and in nouveau riche miners.

Dim-witted, cash-heavy, drunkards, gambling fiends, dressing themselves as half-baked nobles while barely literate—that was the truest image of them.

And wherever you went, Northern nouveau riche were the most welcome guests.

After all, no one was easier to fleece.

"What are you all standing around for?"

Sam barked at his men.

"Bring our most honored guest, the dear Mr. Bruce, the very best service!"

The casino, moments ago lukewarm, stirred to life again.

Elegant music floated up.

Waiters hurried over with wine and cigars.

Croupiers in dresses cut so low and skirts so high they were barely legal sidled up to Muen, helping arrange his chips while casually showing off their curves.

"Now that’s more like it."

Muen clamped a cigar in one hand and smacked a croupier’s backside with the other, drawing a startled squeal before laughing heartily.

"A long night always needs a little fun, doesn’t it?"

"Mr. Bruce speaks the truth."

Sam rubbed his hands, eager. "Shall we begin?"

"Begin, begin."

Muen waved impatiently. "Right now."

Impatient indeed.

A cold smirk flickered in Sam’s eyes.

Let’s see if you’re still smiling when you’ve lost even your trousers.

"Since it’s just the two of us, why don’t we settle it with Belrand’s most popular Bess Poker?"

He toyed with his chips as he made the suggestion.

"Of course," Muen agreed easily.

Bess Poker was much like the Texas Hold’em of Muen’s past life, only simpler:

Two hole cards, ante, then community cards dealt face up each round. Bets each round had to meet or exceed the previous, no upper limit. Fold allowed.

After three rounds, if no one folded, suits and numbers decided the winner.

Winner-takes-all, quick to make money, low house cut, and simple enough for drunks and drug-addled lowlifes to follow—it had swept the Lower City. Even some Upper City nobles were said to be hooked.

Many gangs liked it for another reason...

"Mr. Sam, I just thought of something."

"Oh? Please, go ahead."

"You wouldn’t be cheating, would you?"

Muen rubbed his chin with mock seriousness.

"I’m new here. If you cheated, I wouldn’t stand a chance."

"Of course not."

Sam shrugged easily.

"You can relax—our rules say cheats get beaten to death."

"Oh? Even you?"

"Even me."

He held up a hand, and Muen noticed it had only four fingers.

"This is what I paid in my youth for arrogance. You can check all the gear yourself, even deal if you like. If I cheat, my life is yours."

"I see..."

Muen pretended to think, then lounged back, crossing one leg over the other.

"Forget it, I trust you. No grudge between us—you’ve no reason to set me up."

"Of course. Mr. Bruce, you’ll always be a friend to this casino."

Sam showed gratitude—but where Muen couldn’t see, his mouth curled in mockery.

Idiot.

...

The game began.

Before any bets, Sam saw Muen’s face—trying to hide it, but joy flickered clear as day.

A good hand?

So easy to read.

Alright, the usual—give him a taste first.

Sam didn’t even look at his own cards, just tapped the table lightly with a finger.

...

"First round—winner, Mr. Bruce."

...

"Second round—winner, Mr. Bruce."

...

"Eighteenth round—winner, Mr. Bruce! Congratulations, you’ve broken our casino’s win streak record!"

Amid flowers, applause, champagne spray, astonished murmurs, and fawning beauties, the atmosphere soared.

The “new king” who’d set a record his first night lounged with his feet on the table, one arm around a scantily dressed woman, sitting atop a chip mountain, looking down at Sam.

"Mr. Sam, you’re not as good as the rumors say."

"Haha, Mr. Bruce is simply too strong."

Sam forced a smile, wiping nonexistent sweat.

"I’ve never faced someone like you—it’s thrown me off my game."

"Hmph. Back in the Northern Territories, I was unbeaten—called the Little Gambling King of Jiangnan." Muen puffed himself up.

"Beating you is normal for me."

So are all Northerners as stupid as you? Sam sneered inwardly.

The fish was well and truly hooked.

"Will you keep playing? You’re already up several million."

"Of course. My luck’s blazing—continue!"

...

Nineteenth round, winner: Sam.

"Oh, shame—my streak’s broken."

Muen shoved over a big stack without blinking.

"Continue."

...

Twentieth round, winner: Sam.

"Looks like I’m turning my luck too," Sam said.

"Hmph, two wins prove nothing," Muen snorted. "Continue!"

...

Twenty-fifth round, winner: Bruce.

"See? Just a fluke before."

He hadn’t noticed his winnings this time were pitifully small.

"Continue!"

...

Night deepened, the casino buzzed hotter.

Everything slid toward the preordained end.

Fortieth round, winner: Sam.

"This... impossible."

The “Gambling King” Bruce was pale, staring at his cards.

Again—he’d lost again. This time, greed had cost him five million.

His chip mountain was half gone, now just a little mound.

The women had drifted away, the spectators jeered.

"What’s wrong, Mr. Bruce?"

Sam basked in a croupier’s massage, feigning concern.

"If you’re unwell, we can pause—"

"Continue!"

Muen’s eyes were bloodshot, feral. "Next hand—I’ll turn it around!"

"Very well."

Sam licked dry lips, smile tugging up.

No need to draw it out—time to reap.

The plan was perfect:

Give him wins, let him taste easy money, feed hope even in losing, push him to the brink, then offer a shining, irresistible “last chance.”

That was when—

"All in! I’m betting it all!"

Muen shoved every chip forward, trembling as he stared at his hand, eyes shining with the future he saw—because he held four of a kind.

One of the strongest possible hands.

Few ever saw it in a lifetime of play.

Of course he’d stake everything.

Sam, veteran gambler, knew exactly how that mind worked.

"Not just these chips—I have deposits at the Imperial Bank, and properties in Belrand worth ten million. All in!"

Bank cards, deeds, even a gold pocket watch—all shoved forward.

By the rules, bets must match.

"You won’t fold, will you?" the suddenly nervous man asked.

"Of course not."

For wealth worth tens of millions, Sam grinned wide.

"My hand’s big too—why would I fold, Mr. Bruce?"

"And your stake..."

His chips weren’t enough.

"The casino. I’m betting this casino."

A deed hit the table, as if prepared in advance.

The man’s eyes roamed the room, excitement growing.

He could already see himself owning this gold mine.

He threw down his cards.

"Four of a kind! You lose, Sam!"

Sam’s smirk widened, gaze mocking.

Idiot.

Normally, you’d win—I had the dealer give you that hand.

But that’s in normal cases.

Lowering his eyes, Sam looked at his own poor cards—not even a pair. No matter.

A fingertip rubbed one card—

The number changed. The whole hand transformed into the unbeatable top hand in the game.

No magic—just sleight-of-hand. Magic could be sensed. This, if done well, was harder to detect.

And cheating?

Heh. If they don’t catch you, it isn’t cheating.

"Mr. Bruce, my apologies."

Sam laid down the unbeatable hand, smiling in triumph.

"Looks like I’m just that bit better."

"..."

The casino fell silent.

Everyone gaped at the hand, giving Sam a rush of satisfaction.

He looked leisurely at “Mr. Bruce,” savoring the despair—

...

But in those pale-blue eyes was no despair.

Only... mockery.

Unparalleled mockery.

Like an actor after a grand performance, the man set his hat back on. The exaggerated emotions vanished under its brim, replaced by unreadable shadow—except for that clear, mocking smile.

"Mr. Sam, what are you saying? The winner... is me."

"You? Impossible, I have—"

Sam looked down—and froze.

In disbelief, he saw the unbeatable card had reverted, leaving him with a pathetic, powerless hand. Not even a small pair.

Because—

The card he’d switched out was back, crooked in his hand, glaringly out of place.

"How... how is this possible?" he screamed.

It was back?

How the hell was it back?

It didn’t walk back by itself!

"Your best is a single ace. Mine is four of a kind. I think anyone can see who’s won."

Muen dabbed sweat from his forehead.

Though the casino wasn’t hot, he looked as though he’d just finished hard exertion.

"Which means... all this is mine."

Click.

The cold sound of a crossbow string echoed through the hush.

Muen looked up calmly at the magic crossbow in Sam’s hands, his eyes still like still water under shadow.

"Mr. Sam, what is the meaning of this?"

"No... no, this isn’t right!"

Staring at the fortune about to leave his grasp, Sam waved the weapon and shouted, "The winner’s me! I switched that card—my hand was the highest!"

"Switched?"

Muen raised a brow as if hearing it for the first time, tilting his head.

"So... Mr. Sam, you’re saying you cheated?"

"Fuck you! You cheated!"

Sam’s eyes burned red, locked on Muen.

"You did something—otherwise I’d never miss! I’ve never missed!"

"Heh... Mr. Sam, accusing someone of cheating requires proof. And you just admitted you switched a card—that’s cheating, isn’t it?"

Muen’s smile bloomed bright... and cold.

"Which means not just the casino and the money... but your life, too—is mine now."