Chapter 8: The Mad Dice

Inside the transparent glass cup, the three dice tumbled rapidly like mischievous little sprites. No one could predict the outcome.

After a few seconds, the dice gradually came to rest. The result: five, three, and two, totaling ten—once again, “small.”

Luke had won again.

“Hmph, that’s one lucky dwarf,” grumbled the two players across from him. If only one more point had come up, it would have been “big,” but it fell short by just one, sticking with “small.” They were convinced Luke was riding a streak of dumb luck.

Before the next round began, one of the three players—a burly white man—bared his teeth at Luke in a menacing grin and said, “Lady Luck won’t smile on you again, dwarf.” Clearly, he didn’t believe Luke could keep winning.

Luke made no reply. Beneath his Iron Man mask was a face as young as could be; he merely curled his lip in disdain.

The white muscleman bet heavily this round, tossing five golden chips onto the table. Each gold chip stood for a thousand dollars.

He bet on “big.” In his mind, after several “small” results in a row, the chance of a “big” was now extremely high.

Luke still bet on “small.”

The other two players, sharing the white man’s reasoning, also put their chips on “big.” Seeing Luke obstinately stick with “small,” the three exchanged mocking glances, convinced this was classic novice behavior, eagerly awaiting his defeat.

The dealer announced, “No more bets,” and the dice began to dance once more.

A few seconds later, the three who’d bet on “big”—including the white man—stared in utter disbelief, as if they’d swallowed flies.

Once again, the result was “small”: one, one, and two—absurdly low.

The dealer pushed a pile of chips—over a dozen in all—across to Luke. Luke accepted them with a smile. From behind his mask, his eyes glanced coldly at the muscleman, and a low, hoarse voice sounded: “Sorry. It seems my luck tonight really is extraordinary.”

“Damn dwarf,” the muscleman snarled, grinding his teeth.

“Freaking calamari!” said Lotus, who had been pretending to be nothing more than an ornament on Luke’s shoulder.

The muscleman glared at Luke, and hearing the voice originate from him, assumed it was Luke who’d spoken. A cold, dangerous gleam flickered in his eyes.

In the following rounds, Luke fully demonstrated what it meant to be on a winning streak.

He bet “small” three more times, then “big” once—all four bets hit!

Even the dealer began to wear a look of incredulity. It was almost unheard of for someone to win so many times in a row.

But neither the dealer nor the gamblers around the table had any inkling that this was just the beginning.

With every successive win, more and more people stopped to watch, gathering around the sic bo table to see what all the commotion was about.

And every time Luke won, the crowd erupted in gasps and shouts of amazement.

Luke bet “small” again.

There had already been seven “smalls” in a row; statistically, the odds of another “small” were extremely low. Consequently, the other players, one after another, placed their bets on “big.”

There were now over a dozen people at the table, all placing bets. But the attention of these gamblers was no longer on their own wagers. Winning or losing seemed irrelevant—everyone just wanted to see whether Luke could continue his streak and remain undefeated.

“Place your bets, no more bets,” the dealer announced with a twitching smile.

The dice began to tumble.

All eyes were fixed on those three dice; some people were holding their breath. As the dice gradually came to a stop, the air around the table seemed to freeze.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd.

Once again, it was “small,” and Luke had hit the mark!

“Oh, my God!” several white and black players shook their heads in disbelief. From a probabilistic standpoint, such a result was nearly impossible. Yet there it was—eight consecutive “smalls,” a feat harder than winning the lottery jackpot.

Some began questioning the dealer, suspecting the machine was faulty. The dealer checked and declared it was functioning perfectly. Yet, at the gamblers’ insistence, a new dice cup was brought from the casino.

The reason was simple: eight consecutive “smalls,” all of which Luke had bet on and won, had severely rattled the crowd.

As time went on, the throng around the table grew thicker, the area packed to bursting. Even after the cup was changed, Luke’s winning streak remained unbroken.

The gasps of amazement gradually turned into cheers—waves of jubilation that drew ever more curious onlookers to witness and join this incredible spectacle.

Luke swept his massive stack of chips onto “big,” placing his entire haul on the bet. After a moment’s thought, he let go.

Having just seen five more “smalls” in a row, Luke reasoned the chance of yet another “small” was vanishingly slim, so he switched to “big.”

The result came swiftly.

Six, five, six—an enormous total! Just a single point away from a house win, but by that margin, Luke claimed victory once more.

Watching Luke win again and again, scarcely ever losing, some seasoned gamblers were so excited they might as well have seen God Himself, exclaiming “Oh my God! Oh my God!” over and over.

The table was awash with men’s shouts and women’s shrieks. In less than half an hour, Luke’s chips were stacked into a mountain of every color.

A crowd had gathered behind him—tattooed toughs, drunken gamblers—all now Luke’s devoted fans.

Tonight, the God of Gamblers had descended upon Hell’s Kitchen, and the place was destined to boil with excitement.

At some point, all the players at the table began following Luke’s bets. They had learned their lesson—Luke was clearly blessed by the gambling gods tonight, and everyone wanted a piece of his luck.

When Luke bet “big,” they bet “big.” When he bet “small,” they followed suit without hesitation.

After several rounds of this, the dealer began to sweat profusely, beads trickling down his forehead.

In sic bo, the odds are stacked in favor of the house. A total of one or eighteen means the house wins, and any triple—three identical dice—also allows the house to sweep the table.

In theory, the house always wins in the long run.

But tonight, something supernatural seemed to be at play.

The dealer, a veteran of countless casinos, had never seen anything like this. With every new wager from Luke, his heart quaked with anxiety.

Watching everyone at the table follow Luke’s bets, the dealer was at a loss—how could anyone keep playing like this and still be friends with the house?

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he surreptitiously pressed a button beneath the table, signaling for assistance from the higher-ups.

The game went on.

By now, nearly half the casino’s patrons had crowded around the sic bo table, eager to witness Luke’s incredible run. It was certain that by morning, word of what had happened here would sweep through Hell’s Kitchen, becoming a legendary tale told by all.

This time, Luke bet on a triple.

A win on a triple pays 150 to one. Without hesitation, he put down a hundred chips. At 150 times the stake, the house would be out fifteen thousand dollars in a single go.

The dealer’s face looked as if he might weep…