Small tiger

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

Lord Alaric's strategy has reached a level of sophistication akin to a masterful performance. He employs both overt and subtle tactics, perfecting the blend of the two. 


In a very public display, he boldly covers the bar tab for the women, yet he does not extend invitations for them to join him at the table. 


The nuance of the word “bartender” further elevates his status, as it implies a level of exclusivity usually reserved for upscale hotels or elite bars, rather than the usual latter-day norms of simply calling them "servers." 


Under the gaze of envious onlookers, Lord Alaric returns casually to his seat. 


He lights a cigarette, drapes his leg over the other, and leans back on the sofa, indulging in a leisurely smoke. 


Watching his nonchalance, I couldn't help but chuckle in disbelief and whispered to him: 


“Lord Alaric, have you forgotten why we're here? Your target is Griselda, not these other women. Why are you ignoring her completely?” 


Chapter 277: The Art of Seduction