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

I didn't recognize the man. He looked to be in his forties, tall and thin, with an expressionless face. However, he had a very distinctive feature: severe vitiligo. His face, neck, arms, and hands were all covered with mottled white patches. Most notably, in the brightly lit hall, the man was wearing a pair of sunglasses. 


As I approached the table, Alaric followed. He glanced at the betting record and sat down, muttering to himself, "This trend is pretty good. The banker is going to win this round!" 


With that, Alaric placed a bet of thirty thousand dollars on the banker. But as soon as the chips hit the table, the man with vitiligo turned his head, staring coldly at Alaric and said, "Do you understand the rules?" 


Alaric was taken aback and retorted, "What rules?" 


"I've rented this table. Who permitted you to bet?" the man with vitiligo replied. 


Chapter 425: The Outburst