The Indomitable Klaus Whitlock

CHAPTER 8

Klaus slid his stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills onto the table. The soft rustle of cash against felt was almost drowned out by the silence that gripped the room.

$120,000 now lay in the betting circle.

Isabella’s breath hitched. Even in high-roller territory, this was lunacy.

Klaus?

He was smiling.

The energy in the room changed. The low murmur of gamblers and dealers, the clinking of glasses, the distant jingle of slot machines—everything dulled, as if the casino itself was holding its breath. Eyes turned toward the table, drawn by the gravity of absurd stakes.

The dealer, a woman with weary eyes but a sharp mind, studied Klaus. His confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was something else—something colder, more deliberate.

Klaus closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He didn’t need to see the cards. He could feel them. Probability whispered to him, unseen forces shifting just slightly in his favor.

When he opened his eyes, his gaze locked onto the dealer’s.

With a smirk as bright as the neon glow outside, he gave a single nod.

“Let’s play.”

And just like that, $120,000—and perhaps something far greater—hung in the balance.

---

The velvet of the table felt cool beneath his fingertips, a familiar texture, a second skin. The room hummed with subdued excitement, punctuated by the rhythmic slap of cards and the occasional murmur of disbelief.

To everyone else, blackjack was a game of skill and chance. To Klaus, it was a slow, deliberate dance of inevitability.

The dealer shuffled with practiced efficiency. The cards, a blur to ordinary eyes, seemed to slow for him. He caught glimpses—patterns forming and dissolving in the motion. He didn't just see the deck; he understood it.

An ace passed under her fingers. A queen followed. He felt the shift, the silent nudge of probability.

Tonight, he was in complete control.

Across from him, a middle-aged man clutched his two tens, knuckles white. Klaus knew. He sensed the absence of high cards, the weight of the remaining low numbers. He wasn’t playing against the house—he was orchestrating a probability symphony.

He moved with precision, each decision calculated, each action effortless. Small bets at first, easing the table into a rhythm. Then, when the deck was primed, when the tides of chance bent in his favor, he struck.

A hit. A stand. A twenty-one, again and again.

The cards obeyed.

He played for hours, his stacks of chips growing taller, their colors blending into a vibrant monument to his talent. The thrill of winning never touched him—no adrenaline, no elation. It was mechanical, predictable, a machine running exactly as intended.

And that’s what made it dangerous.

Because the house always watches.

---

By the time the first hint of moonlight crept through the tinted windows, Klaus had amassed millions. He felt the shift before he saw it—the subtle weight of suspicion settling over him like a storm cloud.

Eyes lingered too long. Dealers exchanged glances. Pit bosses moved closer.

Then, the approach.

A sharply dressed man with a tight, polite smile stopped at the table. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes were piercing, studying Klaus the way a scientist examines an anomaly.

“Sir,” he said smoothly. “You’ve had quite the... streak.”

Klaus offered a slow nod. He knew what came next.

“We’re just going to run a quick check on the cards,” the manager continued, his tone polite but firm. “Standard procedure. You understand.”

Klaus said nothing, simply leaning back as the technicians swarmed the table. They checked the decks, the discard tray, even the felt itself. Magnifying glasses. Ultraviolet lights. Every possible trick.

They found nothing.

They never would.

Because Klaus didn’t cheat. He didn’t mark cards or count them the way others did. His ability wasn’t sleight of hand—it was something deeper, woven into the very fabric of probability itself.

The manager returned, his smile tighter than before.

“Everything appears... in order.”

The word luck was heavy in the air, unspoken but tangible.

Klaus gathered his winnings with calm efficiency, pushing stacks of chips into a satchel. The manager watched him, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

They didn’t know how he did it.

But they knew.

---

Isabella and Richard gawked at the total.

$100 million.

Even for seasoned gamblers, it was staggering.

Richard let out a low whistle. “You just broke the goddamn house, man.”

Klaus merely shrugged, handing them their share.

But he wasn’t done.

He had an idea—one that would allow him to keep playing, refining his ability without raising too many flags. A simple concept: convert a portion of his winnings into free playtime.

Let the house believe he was just another gambler, drawn back by the rush of a high-stakes win.

Richard, impressed, exchanged contact details. A friendship was struck, an invitation extended.

“You ever in town again,” Richard said, clapping him on the shoulder, “you let me know.”

Klaus nodded, barely hearing him.

Because at that moment, a notification flashed across his mind.

[Congratulations on making $10,000,000 using Gift of Gambling. You have now unlocked: Doppelganger.]

A chill ran through him.

[Doppelganger: User can create a clone of himself, active for one day.]

[Maximum number of Doppelgangers: 2]

Klaus exhaled, fingers tightening around the satchel.

Luck was just the beginning.

Klaus told the Mr Randal, the Casino manager about how he wanted to convert a portion of his wins into play.