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

The Player drew a card. The man with vitiligo, still holding the cards tightly with both hands, covered them as before. I watched his hands closely. It seemed just like before; the man with vitiligo made no extra movements. Only his right thumb lightly touched the centre of his left palm. Then, he revealed the drawn card on the table. It was a 9. The man with vitiligo won at the highest stake. I could now basically confirm that this man with vitiligo had cheated. Otherwise, how could he win so easily at such critical moments? 


But how exactly did this man with vitiligo cheat? Did he switch cards? Even if he did switch cards, where did he hide them? He was wearing short sleeves, and his hands never left the table. Moreover, how could his cards be the same as the casino's? Did he produce cards out of thin air? Did he switch cards out of thin air? I don't believe in such mystical and unfathomable things. 


Chapter 436: Deception is No Vice