Chapter 7: The Arrival of the God of Gambling

From the outside, this place appeared to be a factory for sewing children’s plush toys, with all the proper licenses and legally hired seamstresses. If one walked a little further inside, it turned into a privately owned pork cold storage warehouse, again fully licensed and law-abiding, with nothing amiss visible from the exterior. Yet, if one ventured deeper, even a blind man could sense something extraordinary hidden within.

Here, an underground casino was brazenly concealed. The New York police could not be unaware of its existence. But even if they knew, they dared not barge in for a search. According to the American Constitution, private property is sacred and inviolable, and any perceived intrusion could be met with gunfire…

New York police wanting to investigate? They could, but only after obtaining two search warrants from completely unrelated departments, before being allowed inside. However, even then, the real business would likely be long gone, warned well in advance.

Ultimately, no one dared touch Kingpin’s enterprises. Kingpin’s influence reached everywhere—his reputation for commanding both the underworld and legitimate society protected these illicit dealings from any interference.

As soon as Luke entered the casino, he felt the atmosphere shift dramatically. The surroundings were dim, filled with all sorts of people. There were tattooed men with bare chests, intimidating casino bodyguards, drunken professional gamblers mingling together, and even some middle-aged men dressed in sharp suits, trying to appear as successful businessmen (most of them bald).

Accompanying these men were often a couple of foreign women, scantily clad and flirtatious, their laughter fluttering through the air. Among them were also some oriental beauties—with almond-shaped eyes and full lips.

The entire casino was thick with smoke and noise, the atmosphere feverish and intense. Gamblers of every color, height, and build crowded around the tables, some tense, others feigning ease, their eyes tracking the same elusive prize.

This was Luke’s first time in a casino; in his previous life, he had been virtually insulated from such scenes. He wandered through the hall, searching for a dice game. Soon, he spotted a dice table at the edge of the casino floor.

He wasn’t interested in playing other games—he simply didn’t know how. Luke had rarely indulged in gambling; aside from occasionally buying a lottery ticket for fun, even mahjong, which he played as a child, had faded from his memory as he grew older.

Games like poker, blackjack, baccarat—he had no clue how they worked. As for poker variants, the only one he knew was “Fight the Landlord.” He wasn’t sure if that was played in New York, but even if it was, he wouldn’t join. Tonight, he was relying entirely on Seria’s luck potion to double his fortune.

Most poker games require skill as well as luck, which didn’t suit him. On the way here, he’d already decided that dice games were best—a contest of pure luck.

Dice, commonly known as “High-Low,” is arguably the oldest gambling game on Earth, found in every casino.

Before entering, he had already drunk Seria’s luck potion—a sweet and tangy orange flavor. Luke felt confident that tonight he would dominate the tables. He trusted the system; as the saying goes, “products from the system are always premium.”

“Luke, these people are completely defenseless. I strongly recommend throwing a few grenades here,” Lotus never failed to urge Luke to stir up trouble—it was his responsibility; the world needed to be aware of the Apostles’ presence.

“Oh, here we are,” Luke pretended not to hear, casually approaching a dice table.

Perhaps it was still early in Hell’s Kitchen’s nightlife, or maybe dice simply wasn’t popular. When Luke arrived at the table, there were only three gamblers seated, facing the dealer.

As Luke sat, the three gamblers glanced at him. When they saw the Iron Man mask and his diminutive stature—a dwarf, in fact—they sneered, their faces twisted in contempt and mockery. One muttered, “Freak!”

Luke knew he was being looked down upon, but he didn’t care. Soon, he’d have these guys stripped down to their underwear.

At the entrance, Luke had exchanged ten chips, each worth ten dollars. This was his stake for the night, and all he had.

Tonight, he would use those ten chips to make his mark.

Luke believed his methods were more refined than Lotus’s, who only knew destruction. As Luke took his seat, the dice table now had four players and the dealer.

The rules for Sic Bo were simple, tracing back to the oldest dice games: three dice in a transparent glass dome operated by the dealer.

The players first bet on “Big” or “Small.” Once the bets are placed, the dealer presses an electronic button, making the dice jump. When the dice settle, the sum of their faces is revealed.

A total of 4 to 10 is “Small,” 11 to 17 is “Big.” Totals of 3 or 18 mean the dealer wins. If all three dice show the same number, the dealer sweeps the table.

The rules were straightforward. Of course, the betting variations and odds were far more complex, but those needn’t be explained here.

Sic Bo has a fast rhythm; soon, Luke could join the betting. He didn’t rush, but watched the other three play a few rounds, quickly picking up the rules and gaining confidence.

When the dealer called, “Place your bets, please,” Luke picked up a chip, thought for a moment, and placed it on “Small.”

Besides Luke’s bet, the other three players made their own wagers—two bet on “Big,” and the third placed a bet on “Triple.”

“Triple” meant all three dice would show the same number, the highest odds at 150 to 1. Regular Big/Small bets paid only 1 to 1. This gambler was clearly aiming for a big win.

Once everyone had finished betting, the dealer said, “No more bets,” and pressed the electronic switch.

The three dice danced rapidly inside the glass dome.

Everyone’s eyes, including Luke’s, were glued to the dice, unblinking.

After several seconds, the dice settled. The faces showed 1, 5, and 6, totaling 12—“Big.”

Luke had bet “Small,” so he lost this round.

Luke frowned slightly, thoughtful. The two who had bet “Big” smiled as the dealer pushed chips toward them, their faces smug.

The next round began quickly.

This time, Luke again bet on “Small.” The other three players all placed chips on “Big,” one stacking a tall pile—the same one who previously bet on “Triple.”

Seeing Luke betting only a single chip, the three looked at him with renewed contempt.

“No more bets,” the dealer announced.

The dice danced again.

Seconds later, they settled, showing 2, 2, and 4—a total of 8, “Small.”

He won!

Luke felt a quiet relief. Losing the first round must have been a statistical fluke; Seria’s luck potion was now working.

The dealer, wearing a professional smile, pushed two chips to Luke. His stake was back to ten chips.

The three losers reacted differently.

The biggest bettor was a burly white man whose arms were covered in inscrutable tattoos, with a fierce vertical scar running from his eyelid to his ear, giving him a terrifying grin.

The muscleman frowned—he’d lost twice in a row and seemed very displeased, a cold smile on his lips.

The other two at the table snorted when they saw Luke win, clearly dismissing him.

In the casino, winning and losing was routine; these veteran gamblers understood that. This time they lost, but next time could be different.

Third round.

Luke again bet on “Small,” this time placing three chips.

The other three, two bet on “Big,” and the muscleman again recklessly bet on “Triple.” Only Luke bet on “Small.”

His tablemates seemed unwilling to share a bet with a dwarf.

The dealer smiled, “No more bets.”