The next morning.
While cruising through the city in his Rolls-Royce Cullinan, Damien Westbrook’s phone buzzed with a message from the private investigator.
TARGET LOCATED: Ethan Bke entered underground casino @ 9:47 AM. Currently inside.
Damien smirked.
Just as I thought.
He’d read enough webnovels in his st life to know exactly how this kind of protagonist operated.
Guy’s broke. Needs money fast. Has a cheat skill that lets him see through things?
There were only two routes.
Stone gambling.
Straight-up card games.
Problem was—Qingridge City didn’t have stone gambling markets. Too niche. Too messy. Too far away.
Which left only one option:
The casino.
“Take me to the address from the text,” Damien told his driver.
Fifteen minutes ter, the Cullinan glided to a stop in front of a nondescript building tucked between a bakery and a closed pawn shop. To anyone else, it looked forgettable.
To Damien?
It might as well have had a neon sign screaming PLOT DEVELOPMENT.
He stepped inside without urgency. If he knew Ethan, the guy had only just started.
After all, he only had what—500 to work with? Maybe two?
Even with X-ray vision, that’s not enough to make big waves yet.
And Ethan wasn’t dumb. He wouldn’t try to win 9,000 in one go.
He’d py it safe. Slow wins. Stay under the radar.
Damien approached the counter. A curvy young hostess leaned forward with a practiced smile, her cleavage framed perfectly by a bck cheongsam dress.
“Hey there, handsome. How many chips are you looking to exchange?”
“Five hundred thousand,” Damien said calmly.
The smile cracked.
“F-Five hundred thousand?” she echoed, blinking.
This was a mid-tier casino. 50k buys? Sure. That’d get you the velvet booth, a comp drink, maybe a bodyguard escort.
Half a million?
That wasn’t a high roller.
That was a walking bank vault.
“Swipe it,” Damien said, handing over a sleek matte-bck card. “Six sixes.”
The hostess looked skeptical—but ran the card anyway.
Approved.
Her eyes nearly doubled in size.
She waved to a co-worker and practically sprinted from behind the counter to personally escort him.
Probably thinks I’m some spoiled rich brat trying to py mob boss for a day.
Perfect.
“Would you like to start with bckjack, Mr. Westbrook? Or maybe baccarat? I could show you our private lounge...”
She leaned in just enough to “accidentally” brush against his side.
Damien didn’t flinch.
He stepped aside with smooth precision, as if dodging a mosquito, and gave her a look that was equal parts cold and bored.
She froze mid-pout, realizing this VIP wasn’t biting.
“I don’t like house games,” Damien said coolly. “We do it my way—five hundred thousand, one hand, winner takes all.”
Her eyes widened. “Sir… this is a small casino. No one would take that kind of bet.”
“Then ask your boss.”
The flirt vanished. She bowed slightly, then darted away.
Minutes ter, she returned, looking much more professional.
“Please follow me.”
Damien was led to a private room, plush and dimly lit.
At the table sat a broad-shouldered man with a scar running across his left brow, beard thick and uneven. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a gangster flick.
“So you’re the rich kid with cash to burn,” the man said, voice rough.
“I’m the guy here to py,” Damien replied.
Scarface narrowed his eyes. “What’s the game?”
“One card draw. Sealed deck. Zha Jin Hua rules. Highest card wins. No folds. No tricks. Just luck.”
The room tensed.
Pure luck games?
Terrifying.
One round. One card. All or nothing.
Scarface gave him a long, slow stare.
“…Fine. Let’s py.”
A brand-new deck was opened in front of them. Still in its wrapper. No marks. No prep.
The cards were shuffled, cut, and dealt.
One card each.
Damien didn’t even gnce at his.
Scarface peeked at his and nearly jumped out of his seat.
Ace of Hearts.
I’ve got this.
The only way he’d lose was if Damien pulled Ace of Spades—and what were the odds of that?
Slim.
Very slim.
This kid’s about to lose half a million on one hand.
Scarface licked his lips.
But Damien?
Still hadn’t looked.
“It’s your turn to flip,” the scar-faced boss said, voice thick with confidence. “No way you’ve got the Ace of Spades.”
Damien didn’t answer right away.
He lifted the corner of his card, barely gncing at it.
Ace of Spades.
Huh. Really? That’s what I drew?
For a moment, he considered actually flipping it. Winning the half-mil would be a fun flex.
But no.
He wasn’t here for the money.
He sighed lightly, then tossed his card back onto the table face-down.
“Guess luck wasn’t on my side,” Damien muttered, feigning irritation. “You win.”
He stood up and left without another word.
No fanfare. No protest. No demand to see the cards.
Half a million gone—just like that.
And not a flicker of emotion on his face.
What’s half a million? Just gas money for the week.
He still had over 300k on the card. And if he ever needed more? One call to his mother or father, and he’d have another million in his account before the hour was up.
Across the table, the scarred man blinked, then chuckled, rexing back into his seat.
“Thought for a second you were some slick card shark trying to gut my house,” he ughed, shaking his head.
Damien gave him a faint smile. “I’m not a cheater.”
Then, as if casually remembering something, he added:
“But I did see one walk in earlier.”
The grin vanished.
The man’s eyes sharpened. “You serious?”
“Crystal.”
Scarface leaned forward. “In my house? Anyone cheats in here, they lose a hand.”
“I figured.” Damien gnced around the room. “You’ve got cameras, right?”
“Obviously.”
“Then let’s check the feed.”
—
A few minutes ter, Damien and the boss stepped into a small back office filled with monitors—each one showing a different camera angle of the casino floor.
“There,” Damien pointed.
On screen, Ethan Bke sat at a Big-Small dice table, cool and composed as he pced another bet.
“Rewind,” the boss barked at the technician. “Slow-mo.”
They watched the footage again, frame by frame.
Nothing.
No sleight of hand. No signals. No chip switching. Not even a twitch that looked off.
“He looks clean,” the boss muttered.
Damien smirked. “He’s not some street hustler with loaded dice. Think deep con—the kind you only learn from old-school masters. His trick isn’t in the hand. It’s in the timing.”
The boss frowned.
Damien leaned casually against the desk. “You won’t catch him through the camera. But you can track his numbers.”
He straightened and nodded toward the screen.
“Check what he came in with. Compare it to what he’s made. My bet? He’s on a pattern. Loses just enough to look normal. Wins big when it matters.”
The boss grunted and waved a staff member over.
“Get his record.”
Two minutes ter, the numbers came in:
Ethan entered with 500.
Pyed five different tables.
Record: 10 wins, 9 losses.
Net profit? 3500.
The scar-faced man frowned. “Doesn’t add up.”
“Exactly,” Damien said. “He’s minimizing losses, maximizing return. Smart. Subtle.”
The boss rubbed his jaw. “You think he’ll stop soon?”
“Probably around 9k,” Damien replied coolly. “Cssic con artist py—set a target, hit it, leave before anyone notices.”
“…Why 9K?”
Damien shrugged. “Heard it from someone at another table. Said that guy mentioned it in passing. No idea if it’s true.”
He checked his watch and casually turned away. “Anyway, this has nothing to do with me. Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”
He walked out without looking back.
Didn’t wait for thanks. Didn’t ask for compensation.
Just pyed his part—and exited.
—
Back in the surveilnce room, the casino boss narrowed his eyes.
“Keep watching him.”
Sure enough, over the next 15 minutes, Ethan’s chip count ticked higher.
Every game? Same rhythm.
Small losses… then boom—just the right win.
When his total crossed 10,000, Ethan stood up, stretched, and casually made his way toward the front exit.
Like a guy who just had a lucky day.
Like someone about to vanish.
Too clean. Too smooth. Too confident.
The boss smmed the desk.
“Gotcha, you sneaky bastard.”
He grabbed the radio off the console.
“Security, lock the front doors. Stop the buzzcut punk in the white T-shirt. Right now.”
