The croupier’s hand swept across the table, collecting Peter’s chips in one smooth motion.
Peter froze, his entire body numb. He stared at the wheel, as though willing it to spin again, but it was final. The little white ball rested in a red slot, mocking him. Around him, murmurs rippled through the crowd. A few spectators shook their heads and drifted back to their own games, while others lingered, staring at him with pity or curiosity, as if watching a tragedy unfold. Peter’s knees buckled. He gripped the edge of the table to keep from collapsing, his breath ragged. The number 20,625 pounded in his head like a hammer, louder than the noise of the casino. His mother’s face flashed before him—her frail body hooked up to machines, waiting for him to save her. He imagined walking into that hospital empty-handed, her hopeful expression fading into despair. He’d failed. “Rough break,” Falcone said smoothly, his voice slicing through the fog of Peter’s mind like a blade. Peter turned toward him, his vision blurred by frustration and despair. Falcone stood there, calm and predatory, his smirk sharper than the edge of a knife. His eyes glinted coldly, like he’d been waiting for this moment. “You know the deal, kid,” Falcone said, extending his hand. “The necklace.” Peter’s hand instinctively shot to his chest, gripping the small silver pendant. The metal felt strangely heavy in his palm, as though it carried a weight far greater than it should. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Falcone continued, his tone soft but laced with menace. “A deal is a deal.” Peter’s mind raced. The necklace was only thing he had left of his father, he couldn’t bring himself with him. It was like losing him all over again. “I can’t,” Peter muttered, shaking his head. Falcone’s smile faltered, replaced by a sharp, dangerous edge. “What was that?” Peter stepped back, his voice breaking as he shouted, “I said no!” Without waiting for a response, he turned and bolted, shoving through the stunned crowd. “You little shit!” Falcone roared, his voice booming over the chaos. Peter didn’t look back. His legs pumped furiously, his lungs burning as he sprinted out of the casino and into the night. …. The rain had turned to a heavy downpour, soaking Peter to the bone as he fled through the dark streets. His shoes splashed through puddles, each step pushing him further into unfamiliar territory. He didn’t know the layout of the city—didn’t care. He just had to run. But one wrong turn ended his escape. The alley swallowed him whole. Its shadows twisted and writhed, wrapping around him like a noose. The walls closed in, slick with rain, and the dead end loomed ahead, a jagged brick barrier that offered no escape. Peter spun around, but it was too late. Five figures emerged from the darkness, their hulking silhouettes blocking the only way out. Their faces, distorted by the flickering streetlight, were masks of malice. Peter staggered back, his heart hammering in his chest, until his back hit the cold, unyielding wall. Falcone stepped forward, his smirk returning. The rain glistened on his suit as he tilted his head, regarding Peter like a wolf eyeing its prey. “You foolish boy. You thought you could run from me?” Before Peter could respond, the first punch slammed into his ribs. The dull thud was followed by a burst of pain that stole the air from his lungs. A fist smashed into his face, snapping his head back. Blood sprayed from his nose, warm and sticky, mixing with the rain. Another blow, this time to his stomach, doubled him over. The storm of violence began in earnest—fists, boots, and elbows raining down on him in relentless waves. Every impact sent shockwaves of pain through his body, each one worse than the last. Blood streamed from his mouth, his nose, his scalp. His limbs twitched uselessly as his strength left him. He tried to crawl away, his fingers scraping against the wet pavement, but a steel pipe came down hard on his outstretched hand. CRACK. Peter screamed, the sound raw and animalistic. “Stop! Please, stop!” he begged, his voice choked with blood and tears. The pipe struck again, this time across his back, sending a sharp, searing pain through his spine. He collapsed face-first into a puddle, the water quickly turning red as it mixed with the blood pouring from his wounds. “Don’t kill him yet,” one of the men chuckled darkly. “We’re just getting started.” Another kick connected with his ribs, and something inside him gave way. The pain was overwhelming, a blinding, all-consuming agony that left him wishing for unconsciousness—or death. But they wouldn’t grant him that mercy. Falcone crouched down, gripping Peter’s hair and forcing his battered face upward. “Look at me,” he demanded, his voice dripping with malice. “I want you to remember this. Remember who left you here.” Peter’s swollen eyes flickered with a faint, desperate spark. A defiance that refused to die, no matter how broken his body was. Falcone sneered. With a swift motion, he ripped the necklace from Peter’s neck, the chain snapping with a metallic ping. Then, without hesitation, he drove his fist into Peter’s face one last time. Peter’s head snapped back against the pavement, and everything went still. The men stood over him, laughing as they retreated into the night. “He’s done,” Falcone muttered, kicking Peter’s limp body one last time for good measure. …. The alley was silent now, save for the steady drum of rain. Peter lay motionless in the filth, his body broken beyond recognition. Pain dulled into numbness, his blood pooling beneath him. “This is it,” he thought. “This is how I die.” His mother’s face swam in his mind, her smile fading into disappointment. Tears trickled down his cheeks, mixing with the rain. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered. “I failed you.” The bitterness of failure cut deeper than any blow. He’d risked it all and lost everything. And yet, in the fading moments of his consciousness, a strange thought surfaced: It was exhilarating. Even now, broken and beaten, he couldn’t deny it. Gambling had been the most thrilling thing he’d ever done. A faint smirk tugged at his bloody lips. Maybe I should’ve done it more. Peter closed his eyes, ready to embrace the darkness. But the darkness didn’t come. Instead, the air shifted. A faint glow pierced through the haze of pain, drawing his attention. A semi-transparent interface appeared before him, its light cutting through the rain like a beacon. Words began to scroll across the screen, burning themselves into his mind. [System Initialization… Loading Player Data…] Name: Peter Donovan Status: Calculating… Title: None Class: Uninitiated Gambler [Welcome to the Gambler’s System.] Peter’s swollen eyes widened, his breath hitching. “What… is this?” The interface pulsed with an eerie certainty, its message glowing brighter. [SYSTEM MESSAGE]: “Congratulations, Peter Donovan. You have been chosen. Your destiny is to climb from the lowest depths to the pinnacle of the game. Prove yourself, or fall like the rest. Peter Donovan, you have activated the Gambit System.”
Latest Chapter
Chapter 145
The final rotation slowed...Click.The tile locked.A pause — stretched too long.Peter leaned in.And then — the number flared into view.NEGATIVE FOUR MULTIPLIER.–4XThe red pulsed across the board like a warning siren, deep and final.Peter stared.Froze.Time stopped.“What the fuck...” he whispered, the words falling out of him like broken glass.The crowd gasped — not just surprised, but horrified. A ripple of stunned silence spread through the arena. Even the anchor didn’t speak — for a moment.Then:“...OH NO.”The Anchor's voice cracked with disbelief. “Peter Donovan has landed a –4X! That’s the highest penalty on the board!”Gasps turned to roars. Shouts. Chaos.It was like someone had thrown a match into dry brush — disbelief ignited into pandemonium. The arena screens zoomed in on Peter’s face, pale and stunned. His chest rose and fell, sharp and uneven.Across from him, Chloe didn’t blink. She didn’t smirk.She simply tilted her head. One degree.As if saying: Now we’re
Chapter 144: What the fuck
Chloe didn’t hesitate.Her eyes flicked briefly to the board—just once, just long enough to assess the remaining tiles. 5x unflipped, Six unknowns.But unlike Peter, she didn’t pause to consult a system. She didn’t flinch.She moved.A single, fluid motion: her hand rose, fingers curved like a conductor mid-symphony, then drifted downward and tapped tile 4.The crowd barely had time to react before the hum returned.Click—click—click.The flipping began.Peter leaned in.He watched—not the tile, but her.There was no tremble in her hand. No shift in her gaze. But her breath — there it was. A single, almost imperceptible hitch in her inhale. Not fear. Not panic.Just... calculation failing to resolve.Click—click—click.The rotations slowed.Light glinted off the edges of the spinning tile like silver teeth waiting to bite.Click.It locked.A cold pulse spread through the board.NEGATIVE ONE MULTIPLIER.–1XThe number glowed red. A soft, almost mocking tone accompanied the display. An
Chapter 143: 4x
"System, give me the probability odds of the remaining tiles landing a 4X."---[PROBABILITY VISION ACTIVATED]Calculating...Using Probability Vision for 8 tiles will cost 24 minutes.Would you like to proceed?{YES/NO}---“Yes.”---[TIME BANK: 121 minutes → 97 minutes][Skill Activated: Probability Vision (Level 3)]Calculating...---Tile 1: 30%Tile 3: 17%Tile 4: 11%Tile 5: 18%Tile 7: 12%Tile 8: 25%Tile 9: 9%Tile 10: 22%---Peter’s eyes flicked across the shimmering data overlay on his display, absorbing it all in a heartbeat. Sweat prickled beneath his collar, but he kept his breathing steady.His first flip had landed. But Chloe’s cold 5X had already shifted the entire flow of the match.No more room for safe moves.Still… he couldn’t risk a reckless one.Tile 1. Best odds. Highest probability. No hesitation.Peter extended a single finger toward the board. The surface of Tile 1 pulsed faintly beneath the glass-like sheen, as though sensing the weight of the moment.He
Chapter 142: First flip
The crowd was still vibrating with energy as the Anchor gave a sweeping bow and stepped back from center stage.A quiet hum pulsed through the vast hall, as though the room itself was holding its breath.On the holo-display, the game board flickered into readiness — the sleek digital grid shimmering faintly in the dim light.10 tiles loaded. Coin flip pending.At their seats, Peter and Chloe faced each other across the elevated table — a sleek black surface bordered with thin neon-blue lines. Their personal displays hovered in front of them, responsive to their slightest touch, transparent but pulsing faintly in rhythm with their heartbeats.Peter tightened his grip on the tablet, knuckles white for a moment before he forced himself to breathe. His pulse thrummed painfully in his neck.Across from him, Chloe sat like stone. One leg crossed over the other, tablet resting lightly on her lap. Not a flicker of tension showed in her face — only cold, clinical focus. A chessmaster waiting f
Chapter 141: The next day
The next day finally arrived. Autumn had fully set in across Monte Carlo Gambling University — the crisp air biting with an edge of chill, fallen leaves skittering across the cobblestone pathways.And there they were.Peter and Chloe marching through the winding campus grounds toward their destination — the grand Designated Gambling Hall. Their paths aligned, yet their thoughts worlds apart.“I’m going to win this gamble and prove myself.”For Peter, the need was primal. Unquenchable. It radiated from every step, a hunger that no one had to explain — you could see it in his eyes, in the set of his jaw.Chloe’s resolve, though just as fierce, was buried beneath layers of carefully constructed artifice. She wore her usual corporate-inspired attire: a crisp white blouse tucked into a fitted black pencil skirt, tailored charcoal blazer hugging her slender frame. On her feet — sharp black heels that clicked a steady rhythm across the polished floors. Her look was elegant, cold, commanding
Chapter 140: Later that Night
Later that night.Somewhere across a quieter side of the Monte Carlo Gambling University Campus.Chloe sat alone in her dorm room, a small island of light amid the creeping darkness. A vintage brass desk lamp cast a warm, narrow glow across her cluttered workspace. The rest of the room was draped in shadows — the only other light came from her laptop, its screen flickering softly, washing her face in cold blue.A notebook lay open beside her, its pages crowded with scrawled diagrams and hurried annotations. Pen in hand, she hovered just above the paper, deep in thought.She was studying. But not textbooks. Not theoretical models. No — in front of her was something far more specific, more obsessive.A recorded gamble.On screen: Peter Donovan facing off against Noami. The match had long since ended, yet Chloe — known to most by her gambling alias, Noir — had watched this tape at least six times already. Probably more. She clicked the timeline backward again, freezing the frame on Peter
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