During the years when I ascended to the pinnacle of gambling, I was enveloped in a world where luck intertwined seamlessly with strategy. The thrill of risk was my constant companion, and every hand dealt was an opportunity to weave a tale of fortune and fate.

In those vibrant nights, the casino lights flickered like stars, each glimmer promising untold possibilities. The air was thick with the scent of anticipation and the intoxicating perfume of ambition. My every decision was calculated, and executed with precision, as I danced with the tides of chance, confident in my ability to bend them to my will.

I became known not only for my remarkable skill but also for a certain charisma that drew others to me. Players regarded me with a mix of admiration and trepidation, for I was not merely a participant in the game—I was its master. The cards whispered secrets to me, and I understood the language of the dice as if they belonged to a realm where I reigned supreme.

Yet, amidst the glamour and glory, this intoxicating world concealed its shadows. The very allure that elevated me to greatness also harboured treachery and deception. I found myself ensnared in a web woven by those who coveted my prowess, eager to see me fall from grace.

In those years, I walked a fine line between triumph and disaster, relishing every victory while remaining ever-vigilant against the unseen perils that lurked in the shadows.

The Years I Was The Gambling God

Zhanguantun, dubbed "Thief City," was inherently a den of iniquity. The train station's environs were already a chaotic mix; the sudden influx of beggars intensified the disorder. All eyes turned toward us as Old Wu and I descended the steps. 


The beggars didn't immediately surround us, but rather flanked us, maintaining a cautious distance. Our movements were mirrored by theirs—a silent, ominous ballet. To an uninitiated observer, we might have seen the leaders of this ragged army. 


However, I understood their strategy: to wait for a less crowded area before making their move. 


Leaving the station plaza, as we reached the roadside, the beggars immediately closed ranks, encircling us. They brandished their clubs, rhythmically drumming a menacing tattoo on the pavement; a ritualistic prelude to any beggar's brawl. The demonstration served as both intimidation and a signal to nearby beggars. With the slightest provocation, a hundred blows would rain down upon us. 


Chapter 120: The Mob