“You are…”

As Rat King Sam was about to leave, he stopped in his tracks and looked across the gambling table at the man sitting opposite him.

The black tuxedo had already been taken off and was draped over his arm, revealing a snug gray vest and crisp white shirt. The clothing had clearly been tailored by a top craftsman, perfectly hugging the contours of the man’s physique and accentuating his already towering stature.

Beneath the brim of the hat, his face featured sharp, deep-set features with prominent Slavic traits. However, those pale blue eyes, as clear as glass, were an unusually rare sight among those of Northern Slavic descent.

Yet, under the shadow cast by his hat, Sam found it hard to discern what truly lay hidden in those eyes.

“Bruce Wayne,” the man said, tipping his hat politely.

“Good evening, honorable Mr. Sam.”

“Bruce Wayne?”

Sam frowned and mulled over the name. He had been roaming the Lower City District for a long time and was familiar with all its notable figures. Yet, this name was completely foreign to him.

Could he be just a smug little upstart who heard of his reputation and decided to seek him out?

“Apologies, but I plan to take the night off,” Sam said, dismissively waving his hand. “Why don’t you go find someone else to play with?”

“Is that so?”

Moen sighed regretfully. “That’s truly a pity. I’ve heard much about the legendary gambling skills of Mr. Sam, and I even prepared a little extra tonight—just in case.”

The silver case opened with a crisp clang, releasing exquisitely crafted chips that tumbled onto the gambling table, forming a sizable mound.

It was a total of ten million Emil’s worth in chips—ten thousand in total. No one knew how he managed to fit so many into such a small case, but as they cascaded out and spread over nearly half the table, the dazzling sight was enough to leave an impression on anyone.

In an instant, all eyes in the casino turned toward them, accompanied by gasps of awe at this display of wealth.

“Since Mr. Sam doesn’t have the time to play with me, I guess I’ll just—”

“Wait!”

Sam suddenly shifted back into his seat, his eyes gleaming like a rat that had just caught a scent of cheese.

“Who said I didn’t have time?”

“But…”

“No buts.”

Sam’s gaze flicked toward Moen again. This time, he noticed the intricate golden embroidery decorating the black tuxedo draped over Moen’s arm.

As if reminded of something, Sam raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not from Belland… You’re from the Northern Territories?”

“It’s impressive of you to figure it out this quick. As expected from the Rat King of street legend.”

Moen removed his hat, revealing a striking head of silver-white short hair and smiled.

“Yes, I am indeed from the Northern Territories. I’ve only recently come to Belland to see the world.”

“No wonder…”

Sam’s eyes burned with interest as he licked his lips.

The Northern Territories were rich in rare mineral deposits. But they were also rich in their abundance of nouveau riche who owned these mineral deposits.

Dumb, loaded with money, addicted to alcohol, gambling, and obsessed with dressing up like pretentious aristocrats—despite barely being literate. This was the truest stereotype people had for the Northern Territories’ nouveau riche.

Hence, wherever they went, these wealthy fools from the North were the most ideal patrons one could hope for.

After all, no one was easier to fleece than them.

“What are you all standing around for?” Sam roared at the staff.

“Quickly! Provide our most distinguished guest, the dear Mr. Bruce Wayne, with the finest service!”

The casino, which had been somewhat subdued earlier, stirred with new activity.

Elegant music floated through the air once again.

Attendants hurried about, delivering glasses of wine and cigars for their esteemed VIP.

Busty, scantily clad female dealers—wearing low-cut tops that practically plunged to their waists and skirts that hardly covered their thighs—assisted Moen in organizing his chips while subtly flaunting their alluring figures in his vicinity.

“That’s right,” Moen said with a laugh, casually slipping his cigar between his teeth while smacking the dealer playfully on her butt. Her startled reaction elicited a chorus of laughter from him.

“There’s nothing like some entertainment for a long night, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Bruce. A sentiment anyone could appreciate.”

Rat King Sam rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Shall we get started?”

“Let’s start, let’s start.”

Moen waved his hand impatiently. “Let’s begin now.”

How impatient.

Sam’s eyes flickered with a cold gleam.

Let’s see if he can still smile like that once he’s lost every last chip—including the clothes off his back.

“Well then, Mr. Bruce, since this is a game for just the two of us, shall we settle this over a round of Belland’s favorite pastime—Bass Poker?”

Sam proposed while expertly flipping the chips in his hand.

“That’s perfectly fine,” Moen agreed with a smile.

Bass Poker was quite similar to the Texas Hold’em poker from Moen’s past life, except it had been simplified somewhat.

The dealer would distribute two pocket cards first; players would place the ante and then receive community cards. After each round of community cards, there would be betting, with the rule being that bets could not fall below the ante nor be less than the previous player’s bet.

Players could choose to fold, and bets had no upper limit.

After three rounds, if no one folded, players would compare the suit and rank of their cards. The winner would take everything—the chips from every bet.

Winner takes all; fast money; low casino rake; and rules so straightforward that even those whose minds had been eroded by alcohol and narcotics could understand them with ease—it was no surprise that Bass Poker was wildly popular in the Lower City District of Belland.

Rumor had it that even the noble lords in the Upper Street District had become enamored with the game.

However, it was particularly beloved by gangsters, partly because...

“Mr. Sam, I suddenly thought of something.”

“Oh? Please, do tell.”

“You won’t cheat, will you?”

Moen stroked his chin with mock seriousness.

“After all, I’m new here and not familiar with this place or its people. If anyone cheats against me, I’d be completely defenseless.”

“Of course not.”

Sam shrugged nonchalantly.

“You may rest assured, Mr. Bruce. According to the casino rules, anyone who cheats will face lethal consequences.”

“Oh? Even you?”

“Indeed, even me.”

Sam extended one hand. It was then that Moen noticed something peculiar—Sam’s hand had only four fingers.

“This is the price I paid in my youth for my arrogance and recklessness. So, Mr. Bruce, you can absolutely put your trust in me.

Of course, if you’re still uneasy, you are free to inspect all of our equipment, or even deal the cards yourself. If I cheat, you may claim my life as compensation.”

“I see…”

Moen stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment before reclining in his seat and crossing his legs.

“In that case, forget it. I trust you, Mr. Sam. We have no grievances against each other. You shouldn’t have any reason to harm me.”

“Of course. Mr. Bruce, you will always be a friend of our casino.”

Sam offered a look of gratitude for his trust, but in the shadows where Moen couldn’t see, the corners of his lips curved ever so slightly into a mocking smile.

What a fool.

…

The game began.

As pocket cards were dealt and before any betting even started, Sam noticed the barely suppressed expression of joy on Moen’s face—a sure sign he held strong cards in his hand.

Could it be he’s got a winning hand?

So easy to read.

Well then, per tradition, let’s give you a little taste of victory first.

Sam’s eyes flashed faintly. Without even bothering to check his own cards, his fingers subtly tapped the table.

…

“Round one, winner: Mr. Bruce.”

…

“Round two, winner: Mr. Bruce.”

…

“Round eighteen, winner: Mr. Bruce. Congratulations, sir—you have broken the record for consecutive wins in our casino!”

Amidst flowers, applause, the spray of celebratory champagne, astonished exclaimed from the crowd, and flirtatious compliments from scantily clad beauties, the casino reached a euphoric climax.

The newly crowned “King of Gambling,” entering the casino for the first time and setting a record for consecutive wins, now had his feet propped up on the table, one arm around a provocatively dressed woman, reclining atop a mountain of chips, and gazing disdainfully at Sam.

“Mr. Sam, you don’t seem to be as formidable as the rumors suggest.”

“Haha, no—it’s that Mr. Bruce is simply too strong.”

Sam managed to “squeeze out” a smile and wiped his forehead, though no sweat had actually formed.

“I’ve never faced an opponent as capable as you. It’s understandable that I’d slip up.”

“Hmph, that’s true.” Moen bobbed his head smugly and claimed, “Back in the Northern Territories, I was undefeatable. They used to call me the Little Gambling King of Jiangnan.”

So, are all people from the Northern Territories like you—this foolish?

Sam scoffed inwardly.

But now it seems this fish has fully taken the bait.

“Well then, Mr. Bruce, would you care to continue? You’ve already won several million tonight.”

“Of course. My luck is red hot right now—let’s keep playing.”

…

Nineteenth round, winner: Sam.

“Oh, what a shame. My streak has ended.”

Moen, seemingly unfazed, shoved a large handful of chips forward.

“Let’s keep going.”

…

Twentieth round, winner: Sam.

“It seems my luck is finally starting to turn around,” Sam remarked with a smile.

“Hmph, only two rounds. That doesn’t prove anything,” Moen said dismissively.

“Keep going!”

…

Twenty-fifth round, winner: Bruce Wayne.

“See? See? I told you—the last few rounds were just minor flukes.”

Having snapped his losing streak, Moen was back to his high-spirited self. However, he didn’t seem to notice that this round’s winnings were far smaller than the earlier ones.

“Keep going!”

…

The night grew late, but the casino’s atmosphere only became more electric.

It was as though everything was steering toward an inevitable outcome.

Fortieth round, winner: Sam.

“This… how is this even possible?”

The once boastful “King of Gambling,” Bruce Wayne, no longer retained his earlier arrogance and confidence. He stared down at his cards, his face turning pale.

Again, he lost—again.

Moreover, this time, driven by greed, he had lost an astronomical sum: five million Emil.

The towering mountain of chips beside him had dwindled to a mere mound.

Even the women who had been clinging to him now kept their distance. The onlookers, who had been watching with interest, roared with jeers instead.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Bruce?”

Sam, enjoying the massage from a beautiful dealer, looked at him with feigned concern.

“Are you feeling unwell? If so, we can pause—”

“Continue!”

Moen’s bloodshot eyes glinted like those of an irrational beast. “One more round—next round, I’ll turn everything around.”

“Very well then.”

Sam licked his dry lips, the corners of his mouth curling up without notice.

The kid still seems to have money left. But there’s no need for subtlety anymore—now is the time to harvest.

Everything was proceeding according to plan.

First, entice him with a taste of victory, making him believe his wins come easily. This way, no matter how badly things turn against him later, he’ll hold out hope for a miraculous comeback.

Step by step, driving him towards the Abyss. Then, amidst the despair, give him a sliver of hope.

The best kind of hope: dazzling, incomparable.

At that moment, he would...

"Everything, I bet everything!"

With an exhilarating yell, Moen pushed all the chips in front of him onto the table.

He stared at his hand, his body already trembling uncontrollably. His eyes gleamed as if he could see the inevitable future where he won everything.

—Of course, because his hand was a Four of a Kind.

A Four of a Kind was one of the best hands in this game. A regular player might gamble away their entire fortune and still never draw such a hand.

And now, right when he was about to lose everything, he had drawn a Four of a Kind...

Naturally, he would bet it all.

It’s the mindset of any gambler, and as a seasoned gambler himself, Sam understood this better than anyone.

Everything, from the start, had been under control.

"Not just these chips—I have savings in Imperial Bank, properties in Belland worth around ten million; I am betting all of that too!"

Crystal cards, land deeds, even his golden pocket watch—the man who called himself "Bruce" seemed to have lost his mind. He bet everything onto the table.

And according to the rules, the stakes had to be equally matched.

"You wouldn’t fold, would you?" Suddenly realizing his reckless gamble, the man nervously looked at Sam.

"I won’t, of course not."

Eyeing the wealth worth tens of millions laid out casually on the table, Sam’s grin stretched exaggeratedly across his face.

"To be honest, my cards are quite strong too. Why would I fold, Mr. Bruce?"

"Then, your stake..."

Sam’s current chips of about ten million weren’t enough.

"The casino—I’ll bet this entire casino." Sam clapped his hands, as if he had been well-prepared. His subordinates brought the deed for the casino and placed it on the gambling table.

The casino...

The man’s gaze swept across the room, his expression growing more excited.

It was as if he could already envision his future as the new owner of this thriving casino.

Eagerly, he threw down his cards onto the table.

"Four of a Kind, I’ve got Four of a Kind, Sam—you’ve lost!"

At that, Sam’s smile stretched even wider, his eyes brimming with ridicule.

What an idiot.

Ordinarily, sure—you would win. After all, I purposely had the dealer give you that Four of a Kind.

But that’s only under ordinary circumstances.

The Rat King lowered his gaze to look at his own cards.

Perhaps the dealer had slipped up; the cards were abysmal, not even a Pair.

But that didn’t matter.

He reached out a finger and gently rubbed one of the cards.

The number on the card’s face instantly changed, and with it, the entire hand transformed dramatically.

It became the highest-ranking hand in the game!

No magic was involved—this was simply sleight of hand.

Magic was too easily detected, while such street-performer tricks, if executed skillfully enough, were far harder to spot.

Cheating?

Heh, this certainly wasn’t cheating.

If no one noticed, could it even be called cheating?

Kid, let me show you the cruelty of the Lower City District.

If you can’t even manipulate cards, what makes you think you can gamble against me?

"My sincerest apologies, Mr. Bruce."

Sam placed his cards down lightly, revealing a hand that was rarer than a Four of a Kind—something most people wouldn’t see in their entire lifetime. With a confident smile, he said:

"Looks like my skills are still superior."

"..."

At that moment, the entire casino fell into a deathly silence.

It was as if everyone had been stunned by the hand Sam just revealed.

This afforded Sam immense satisfaction. He leisurely turned to “Mr. Bruce,” casting him an intent gaze.

After all, his favorite pastime was watching the despair of others.

...

But he didn’t see despair in those pale-blue eyes.

Instead, he saw... mockery.

Unequaled mockery.

Like an actor finishing a grand performance, the man who called himself Bruce put his hat back on his head. In an instant, he seemed to transform—it was as if the exaggerated emotions he had openly displayed moments earlier were now cloaked beneath the broad shadow cast by his hat, becoming inscrutable again.

Except for the mocking smile at the corner of his lips—clear and distinct as ever.

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

"You? Impossible. This..."

Sam glanced down at his cards, and his expression froze.

Under the weight of his disbelief, the hand that should have been unbeatable had turned fragile and feeble. Forget a Four of a Kind—it didn’t even have the strength of the smallest Pair.

Because...

The card that was supposed to have been swapped out had, inexplicably, returned.

It sat crookedly in the hand, glaringly obvious.

"This... How could this be?" Sam cried out in shock.

Returned?

What the hell did he mean, returned?

Hadn’t he already swapped that card out? Could it have grown legs and walked back by itself?

"You only have a high card, an Ace, whereas I have a Four of a Kind. Who wins and who loses—I think it’s perfectly clear."

Moen pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Although the atmosphere was lively, the casino wasn’t particularly warm. Yet he seemed to have just finished strenuous exercise, sweat pouring down his face.

“Well then, all of this is mine now.”

Click.

The cold sound of a crossbow cocking echoed through the silent casino.

Moen lowered his hand and calmly raised his head to look at the magic crossbow in Sam’s grip. The pale-blue eyes shadowed in darkness remained as tranquil as ever.

“Mr. Sam, what is the meaning of this?”

“No, this isn’t right at all!”

Seeing nearly five thousand units of wealth about to disappear into Moen’s pocket, Sam waved the crossbow frantically, shouting in outrage: “I’m the winner! That card—I swapped it out! My cards were supposed to be the best!”

“Swapped out?”

Moen raised an eyebrow. As though hearing this term for the first time, he tilted his head and asked softly:

“So... Mr. Sam, are you admitting you cheated?”

“Cheat? You’re the damn cheater!”

Sam’s eyes burned scarlet as he glared at Moen with murderous fury:

“You must have done something—I couldn’t have botched it. I’ve never failed before!”

“Heh-heh. Mr. Sam, if you’re accusing someone of cheating, you should provide evidence. Besides, saying you swapped out the card is basically admitting that you cheated, isn’t it?”

Moen chuckled, like he’d finally seen a rabbit leap into his snares—a laughter as bright as sunshine, yet chillingly cold.

“So that means—not just the casino and the money—but now your life... belongs to me now.”