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

Old Wu, without a moment's consideration, promptly refused. 


Once again, the crowd glanced at me. Some thought I was lying, while others believed Old Wu was too afraid to admit the truth. However, no one expected Old Wu's immediate follow-up: 


"I wasn’t the one directing things earlier, but now I certainly am!" 


As he approached me, he looked at me with disdain and stated, "You little rascal, do you even know how to fight? That teapot you threw at him barely knocked him down. Do you know why?" 


"Idiot! The skull at the front of the head is the hardest part. Hitting someone with a teapot will yield only a noise, some blood, and a frightful appearance—utterly ineffective. But the back of the head is another matter. If that teapot strikes him at the occiput, he’ll drop immediately, perhaps even lose consciousness. Now do you understand?" 


Chapter 226: On-Site Instruction