Rise of the Street King

Chapter 61 — Spin the Wheel

The slums had always been a graveyard for dreams, but tonight they looked like a casino.

In the backroom of a half-collapsed warehouse, beneath a roof patched with rusted sheets of zinc, tables were set with dice, cards, and cheap liquor. The air reeked of sweat and smoke, laughter mixing with curses, the clatter of coins ringing louder than the hum of the city beyond.

Jayden leaned against a wall, machete still strapped at his side, watching the money flow like water down a crooked channel. He’d spent weeks building this the front. A gambling den that wore legitimacy like a mask, run by vendors who owed him their necks.

“See it?” Malikah murmured beside him, her eyes sharp as blades as she scanned the room. “They’re happy to lose money if they think the house is fair. And the house is us.”

Jayden’s lips curled. “Not us. Me. The slums need to know whose hands the wheel spins for.”

The Burned Boy darted between tables, collecting bets, his scarred face catching torchlight like a ghost. The kid was quick, too quick for drunks to cheat. Every time he came back with pockets full, Jayden’s vision grew clearer: this wasn’t just hustling anymore. This was empire.

Later, in the quiet of a back corridor, a vendor named Musa sat nervously across from Jayden, balancing a ledger on his knees. His hands trembled as he flipped through pages.

“You wash it small, spread it thin,” Musa explained, sweat dripping into the ink. “See here? One night’s take looks like ten men buying yam flour. Nobody questions yam flour.”

Jayden studied the numbers, then leaned in close. “You think I can build a kingdom on fake yam flour?”

Musa swallowed hard. “No, King. But it keeps the police blind while you build the real one.”

Jayden tapped the ledger with a finger, slow, deliberate. “Then keep cooking these books. If anyone asks, the King feeds people. He doesn’t bleed them.”

By midnight, the den pulsed with noise. Malikah prowled the edges, daggers hidden but ready. Jayden sat in the corner chair, the unofficial throne, watching coins stack higher than the walls around him. For once, the slum didn’t feel like ashes. It felt alive.

But good nights never lasted long.

A runner burst in, panting, blood on his shirt. The music and laughter died instantly, silence rolling across the room like smoke.

“Boss…” The runner’s voice cracked. “It’s Musa.”

Jayden stood so fast his chair toppled. “What about him?”

The runner’s eyes darted to the floor. “They found him in the gutter. Throat cut. Blood everywhere. And…” He hesitated. “…and a message carved into his chest.”

Jayden’s voice dropped to a growl. “Say it.”

The runner swallowed. “It said… Paid by the King.”

The gambling den erupted into whispers, faces pale, eyes sharp. The words spread like a sickness: The King kills his own.

Malikah slammed her dagger into a table, silencing the murmurs. “Lies. You think Jayden Cole wastes time on vendors? This is Razor’s rot.”

But Jayden didn’t speak. His jaw clenched as he walked out into the night, Malikah and the Burned Boy trailing behind. The alley smelled of iron and rot, and Musa’s body lay crumpled like discarded meat.

Blood had soaked his shirt, but the letters carved into his skin were clear, jagged, ugly. Paid by the King.

Jayden crouched, staring at the words. He wanted to believe it was Razor’s work. But in his gut, he felt something colder this wasn’t Razor’s style. Razor burned, slashed, tore men apart with spectacle. This was… precise. Clean. A message meant to stain not just Musa’s flesh, but Jayden’s crown.

The Burned Boy’s voice cracked. “Boss, people will believe it. They’ll say you eat your own.”

Jayden touched the blood-stained letters, his hand steady even as his chest burned. “Then I’ll make them choke on their own stories.”

Malikah crouched beside him, her voice low. “What do we do?”

Jayden stood slowly, lifting his gaze to the dark skyline where torches still glowed in the distance. His voice was iron.

“We spin the wheel harder. If they want to play with my name, I’ll flood this city with it until it drowns them. Razor wants whispers? I’ll give him screams.”

By dawn, the den reopened, louder and brighter than before. Coins clattered, dice rolled, and every laugh seemed forced, desperate. The slum’s new heartbeat thudded under the weight of Musa’s corpse.

And in the shadows, a small boy slipped a folded note into Jayden’s hand. No words spoken. Just paper, creased and stained.

Jayden unfolded it, eyes narrowing at the single line scrawled in sharp ink:

“The streets will turn. The King eats his own....

Jayden clenched the note in his fist, staring into the crowd of gamblers cheering under his roof. Somewhere among them, his enemies were already moving pieces. The wheel was spinning, but not all of it was his.