[ Round 8]
The dull clink of silver chips echoed louder now, stacking higher in front of Vancroft like the growing whisper of a storm.
Another win.
The pot had swelled. Vancroft's quiet rise had stopped being subtle.
His pile had grown from a few scattered bronzes to nearly thirty silvers—enough to turn heads.
Enough for the pit boss lurking in the corner to glance over.
The dealer, a young man in a red vest with thin, gloved fingers, adjusted his collar. His movements were slower now.
Focused. But it didn't help.
Vancroft watched him like a hawk.
[Dealer's breathing rhythm has increased. He's switching to a conservative pattern. Likely to favour low-risk hands. Strategy adjusted.]
"Double down," Vancroft said calmly, sliding two silver chips forward.
A ripple passed through the table.
The thin woman across from him blinked.
"He's insane…"
No. He wasn't. Every move he made felt measured. Controlled. Dangerous.
The dealer hesitated but nodded, slipping a card face down toward him.
Vancroft didn't even glance at it.
The dealer revealed a 17. Solid. Safe.
Then flipped Vancroft's final card.
A four.
His hand: Seven. Ten. Four.
Twenty-one.
A groan passed through half the table. Some slammed their hands down; others pushed away from their chairs.
Vancroft leaned forward slightly and gathered the mound of silver now in front of him.
Forty-two.
The man beside him, sweating heavily, whispered under his breath.
"He's not lucky. He's cursed."
While the other player couldn't help but be shocked at the events.
This guy's cleaning us out. That's not just skill—it's like he knows the deck and every outcome.
He looked toward the pit master again, but the man in the shadows hadn't moved.
***
[Suggestion: Do not raise to gold tier. If we win too hard too fast, their interest will become hostile.]
Got it, Vancroft replied internally.
'One more round. Then we leave.'
He tapped the table.
"I'll match with five silver," he said smoothly.
Gasps followed. One of the players cursed under their breath.
"You're either the luckiest bastard I've seen or you're cheating," the woman muttered, but it was half admiration, half irritation.
Vancroft just smiled lightly, eyes flicking to the deck.
His cards came: a Jack and an Ace.
Blackjack.
The table went silent.
Even the dealer's hand froze for a second before professionally pushing the winnings toward him.
Sixty silver.
Vancroft stood, calmly sliding half of the chips into a pouch and tossing the rest into a magically sealed coin box provided by the house.
"Thank you for the entertainment," he said politely.
And then, like a shadow slipping from a room, he left the table—leaving behind stunned faces and quiet tension.
***
It wasn't enough.
The heavy weight of the silver coins in his pouch could sustain a man for months—longer, even—but that wasn't why he was here.
Vancroft wasn't playing to survive.
He was playing to evolve.
And that meant risk.
"Damian, next table?"
[Recommendation: Dice Duel. Probability game. Moderate complexity. Favourable odds. Opponents were easily profiled.]
Let's go.
He stepped into the next hall of silver-tier games, slipping from one table to the next like a ghost in a casino's dream.
Dice clattered, cards shuffled, wheels spun.
He never stayed long. Five silver here. Ten there. Triple wins. Double draws. Rare losses—calculated.
The murmur started on his third table.
By the fifth, people had stopped pretending they weren't watching him.
"He's cleaned three tables already…"
"Never seen him before. What noble's brat is he?"
"Look at his fingers. No aura flow, no magic. Is he even using some sort of technique?"
The crowd around the games shifted subtly. Attention gathering, whispers trailing him like fog.
By the time he sat at the seventh table, even the dealers were hesitating before flipping cards or rolling dice.
Another win.
And another.
He didn't need to count anymore—Damian was doing that for him.
[Current earnings: 40 gold coins. 13 silver. 9 bronze.]
Vancroft stood, stretching slightly. His coat rustled as he pulled the pouch closer.
A weight that would've been unbelievable a day ago.
But he wasn't smiling.
"Is it time?" he asked silently.
[Obsidian Tier unlocked. Risks are severe. Players are fewer. Observation is constant. Winning streaks beyond expectation will become… unacceptable.]
Meaning…?
[They will rig the games or remove you.]
He exhaled slowly.
And that's when it happened.
The crowd's whispers didn't fade.
All around the floor, eyes turned—not toward him—but toward the far end of the chamber.
A group stepped through the archway.
Silver hair with a streak of red framed her face like blades of moonlight, but it was the grin that silenced the room.
A sharp, predatory smile, stained faintly red at the corners.
Her suit was a deep obsidian shade, with blood-red lining and tie, a crown-shaped pin gleaming faintly on her chest.
Vancroft's fingers twitched slightly as he studied the girl with blood-red eyes and a smile too wide to be harmless.
She lounged like she owned the place—no, like she was bored of owning the place.
He had seen her face before.
From Vancroft memories.
He whispered under his breath, "Lena Acheron."
Duchy of Acheron.
The Crimson Lineage. A bloodline feared across the empire for their unmatched affinity with fire.
From dragon flames to continental combustion spells, they had mastered it all.
Lena… she was their youngest prodigy.
The only child of Duke Acheron, called "The Infernal Duke"—a man whose rage could melt the continent.
The Archmage who ruled over the concept of fire.
She was said to be the most terrifying fire mage of the new generation.
Her last duel had ended with the arena incinerated and the judges casting barrier spells just to breathe.
And sitting beside her… no, standing—was someone equally dangerous.
Blue-white hair like frozen silk. Eyes colder than death.
A pressure that gripped your soul , forcing you to almost kneel.
Arista Valenstein.
The youngest to ever attain the title of "Sword Saintess".
A 10th-level Aura user warrior who moved like wind and struck like judgement.
It was said she once sliced through a giant siege engine with a training blade of wood.
There were fewer sword saints than there were imperial princes.
Some nations would start wars just to buy a single year of one's service.
"What the hell are they doing here?"
Vancroft muttered. Damian offered no answer, only quiet static.
Even the AI seemed too cautious to guess.
Vancroft's instincts screamed at him. He subtly shifted back, planning to melt into the crowd before either of them noticed.
Too late.
"Hey."
Her voice hit like fire licking across his back.
He turned. Slowly.
Lena was no longer lounging. She was standing now, her grin sharper, eyes glowing with amused curiosity.
Her voice was playful, but beneath it was something scary.
"You've been looking at me like that for a while. That's not very polite, Mister Lucky Streak."
Behind her, Arista hadn't moved an inch—but Vancroft felt her sword hum in its sheath.
Not from fear. But anticipation.
Lena tilted her head.
"You're interesting. And I love interesting things."
Vancroft took a breath.
This… was going to get complicated.
***
The atmosphere shifted the moment Lena sighed.
Her red eyes—already bright—glinted with something untamed. She stretched her arms lazily, then propped her chin on her hand.
"Say, mister lucky streak… Want to play a game?"
Vancroft's jaw tightened.
He'd already started edging back through the crowd, hoping to vanish before they lost interest in him.
But now, every gaze was on him again. The crowd parted like an unspoken wall of pressure—everyone wanted to see what would happen next.
"I think it'll be fun," Lena said, her smile wide, sharp.
"Let's make a bet."
Vancroft narrowed his eyes.
"…What kind of bet?"
"If you win", Lena purred, flicking a coin into the air,
"You get a thousand gold coins. Simple, right?"
A gasp rippled through the room like a wave.
Even the dealers went pale.
A thousand gold coins? That was more than most mid-ranked noble families kept liquid.
It was an obscene amount—more than the obsidian tables ever dealt with.
Vancroft didn't move.
Lena's grin widened. "But… if I win?"
She held up two fingers and wiggled them like a playful child.
"I get two of your limbs. Dealer's choice."
The silence that followed was heavier than steel.
The guards didn't flinch. The pit bosses didn't object.
The house didn't step in. No one told Lena Acheron what was or wasn't allowed.
Vancroft's lips parted, but no words came out. His heart beat in his throat.
He turned inward. "Damian?"
The voice in his mind remained neutral.
This risk is yours to take, Vancroft. I can calculate the odds, the game theory, the statistical models—but the choice? That's on you.
Of course it was.
He let out a long sigh, scratching the back of his head.
There was tension in his shoulders—but not fear.
Focus.
This was a calculated madness.
"All or nothing," Vancroft muttered.
Then louder—calmer than he felt, "Fine. I accept."
A long silence. Then—
Lena howled in delight, laughing like she'd just been handed the best gift in the world.
"Oooh! I like you already!" She grinned, rising to her feet with the flourish of a born noble.
"Don't make me regret betting that much, yeah?"
Beside her, Arista closed her eyes and sighed.
"You're going to make a mess again," she murmured.
With a single flick of her wrist, Lena snapped her fingers.
A pit boss appeared instantly, sweat beading on his brow.
"Prepare the obsidian room," she ordered, voice smooth but heavy with command.
"This one's going to be fun."
As they were led away, the murmurs behind them grew feverish.
Bets were already being whispered—not just about the game, but about how many pieces Vancroft would leave with.
Inside, he walked with measured steps.
For the sake of his progress.