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

The eyes of the Nine-Fingered Remnant widened in disbelief, fixated intently on the dice before me. It was as if he could hardly accept the scene unfolding before him. 


Only then did the Nine-Fingered Remnant snap back to reality, lifting his gaze to meet mine. There was confusion, trepidation, and predominantly, an air of disbelief within his expression. In his understanding, it was unfathomable that anyone could manipulate the dice and ensure the same result. 


After a lengthy pause, he let out a resigned sigh. "The waves of the Yangtze River push the previous ones aside; you have triumphed! Yet, I remain curious as to who taught you this art of deceit?" 


I merely smiled softly, withholding a response. In truth, I wasn't particularly adept at manipulating dice. Varg, on the other hand, was an unparalleled master. He could rock 24 large dice with his right hand and 24 small ones with his left, all while singing "Moscow Nights" in Russian. 


Chapter 161: Conditions