Chapter 9: Die, Russians!

When the dealer pressed the dice shaker switch, his hand trembled. As the three dice began to leap rapidly inside the glass dome, the entire crowd held their breath, every eye fixed unblinkingly on the dome, as if fearing they would miss the very instant the answer was revealed.

Some gamblers’ palms were slick with sweat. Seeing Luke make an unusually bold play, after a brief hesitation, they too followed suit, placing large bets. The odds for a triple were so high—one hundred and fifty to one—precisely because the chance of all three dice showing the same number was vanishingly small.

Usually, those who bet on triples were either pure gamblers, hoping to get rich overnight and more often than not losing everything, or casual players who might just get lucky. In gambling, there is never any certainty.

Yet tonight, it was as if these people had found their faith. Without much deliberation, they all followed Luke’s bet. Some even staked everything they owned, wildly pushing it all onto the table, chasing after Luke’s wager on the triple.

This was the most frenzied climax of the evening!

Luke’s gaze was riveted on the three dice, a subtle thrill and restlessness stirring in his heart. His blood surged like boiling water, adrenaline flooding his veins.

A hundred chips—if he lost, a thousand dollars would vanish. But if he won, with the odds at one hundred and fifty to one, the casino would owe him fifteen grand!

Without a doubt, this was his boldest gamble of the night. If he won, he could call it a night. If he lost, it didn’t matter—he’d already won nearly fifty thousand dollars this evening, achieving one of his goals.

For a moment, a hush fell over the table, so silent one could hear a pin drop. Every ear strained to catch the crisp, magical tinkling of the dice as they danced within the glass dome.

Under the gaze of all, the dice began to lose momentum and gradually came to rest.

The first die stopped: three pips on top.

No one blinked.

The second die settled—also a three!

A collective, sharp intake of breath swept through the entire casino. All eyes widened in unison. Now, everything depended on the third die.

It felt as though an eternity passed—or perhaps only an instant.

The third die stopped.

Three.

It was a triple!

Without warning, the crowd exploded. Men and women alike went wild—shouts of disbelief, hysterical screams, and pounding exclamations surged in a tidal wave, growing ever more thunderous, threatening to lift the casino’s very roof.

This time, everyone truly lost themselves in madness.

Triple! The God of Gamblers called the triple, and a triple appeared! If he wasn’t the God of Gamblers, who could be? Everyone had witnessed the entire process with their own eyes.

“God of Gamblers! God of Gamblers! God of Gamblers!” they chanted.

Luke was surrounded by a storm of ecstatic cries, a cacophony of languages and accents blending into a frenzy. Words could no longer express the crowd’s excitement—many were shouting incoherently, bellowing “Long live the God of Gamblers!” Watching Luke win felt as if they themselves had triumphed.

Amid the raucous adoration, Luke gathered his mountain of chips, nodded to the dealer, and signaled for his winnings to be settled.

At last, the dealer broke into tears.

One hundred and fifty times the wager—this dealer had seen storms before, but tonight, the casino would lose not just to Luke, but to all those who had followed him onto the triple. The sum was staggering. The dealer could almost see himself being dragged off by the furious bosses to have his limbs broken and tossed into a filthy alley. No amount of explanation could justify this uncanny streak at his table.

Luke rose to leave.

The crowd parted instantly, forming a path for him. In that moment, regardless of race or status, everyone paid their highest respects to Luke—the undisputed God of Gamblers tonight.

Within these walls, on this night, he was divine. Never mind his stature—tonight, he was a giant.

Thunderous applause surrounded him. Luke couldn’t deny a change in his heart; he truly felt invincible, as if the God of Gamblers had descended upon the earth. He chuckled inwardly: “I must admit, the system is incredible!”

Just as he took his first step, a discordant voice called out behind him, pitched high: “Won big and now you’re leaving? Damn dwarf! Dare to play me a few more rounds?”

In an instant, every eye turned to the speaker. It was the tattooed white muscleman.

The show wasn’t over after all—the crowd’s eyes lit up with anticipation.

Luke frowned slightly and looked back. He remembered this man—he was the only one who had consistently bet against Luke all night, never following his lead, and thus had lost every time.

Yet the man seemed undeterred, almost stubbornly antagonistic, and always played big. Who knew how much he’d lost tonight? Luke didn’t understand his motives—there was certainly no grudge between them.

At that moment, Luke overheard whispers behind him:

“Hey, isn’t that Anatoly, one of the Russian Mafia twins? He’s a regular here.”

“You came late—you missed it. Anatoly’s been at the table all night. Too bad Lady Luck wasn’t with him; he’s been losing non-stop.”

“Damn fool, going up against the God of Gamblers! How stupid can you get?”

“Looks like Anatoly wants to challenge him now—won’t let him leave. This should be good!” The speaker sounded excited—there are always those who love a spectacle.

No one in this den was a pushover, and the crowd quickly began to clamor for more.

Anatoly, as if buoyed by the crowd, gave a triumphant grin—his scarred eyelid twisting his expression into a sinister sneer. He gestured grandly to Luke and said, “Sit down, dwarf. Play two more rounds with me. Unless you’re lacking courage? I wonder, do dwarves have any balls? Or are you more like a eunuch? Prove it to me, why don’t you?”

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Beneath his mask, Luke sneered in silence. The commotion he’d caused tonight was sure to draw the attention of those behind the casino. He was waiting for them to show themselves.

“What’s the matter, are you afraid?” Anatoly sneered.

Beside Anatoly sat a flamboyantly dressed, voluptuous blonde. He pulled her close, groping her shamelessly as the crowd whistled and jeered.

Anatoly’s grin grew more twisted. “Tell you what—you play ten more rounds with me. Win or lose, she’s yours for the night. How about it, dwarf? Ever tasted a woman before?”

The crowd laughed even harder.

Anatoly raised his chin, his eyes mocking.

The blonde seemed unfazed, even regarding Luke with interest, licking her lips provocatively.

Luke was about to refuse—“Sorry, not interested” (he suspected she might be dangerous).

Just then, from his shoulder, Lotus shouted, “Go to hell, you stupid Russian!”

Luke was stunned.

The crowd roared with laughter—uproarious now. They all took this as Luke, the God of Gamblers, defending his honor and accepting the challenge.

Whistles and cheers filled the casino; the atmosphere was electric, and the night was far from over.