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

This particular game was to be played by only four individuals. Aside from Broderick and Lord Alaric, the other two participants were summoned by Broderick himself. 


One of them, a gentleman clad in a Zhongshan suit and in his fifties, appeared dignified and composed. The other, a rather haughty man in his thirties with a prominent nose, exuded an air of arrogance as he engaged in conversation. 


As the four sat around the gaming table, Broderick shuffled the cards with a rhythmic flair and remarked, “Since we are all friends, let us keep the stakes moderate—how about five hundred with no cap on three thousand?” 


Before Lord Alaric could respond, the man with the prominent nose quickly interjected, “Broderick, that seems rather trivial. Let’s raise it to one thousand with no upper limit of five thousand, shall we? You have no objections, I presume?” 


Chapter 362: The Swallow Returns to the Nest