Chapter 4: The God of Gamblers.
The noble had not yet recovered from the mild shock of the loss.
Three gold coins.
That was all she had asked for.
Not land deeds, not a chest of silver, not even the sort of indulgent compensation one might expect from a desperate gamble.
Just three coins—barely enough to purchase a week of decent wine, less than the interest accrued on his vaults in a single hour.
How could a person value themselves so cheaply?
His fingers idly turned a chip between thumb and forefinger as his gaze followed her retreating figure.
He was not blind, nor was he inexperienced.
There was a certain discipline in the way she moved.
The posture, even dulled by exhaustion, carried remnants of etiquette. Of training.
Nobility, without question.
Fallen, most likely.
Still, even the fallen clung desperately to pride.
Humans always did.
They inflated the worth of their lives until it became grotesque, demanded kingdoms for scraps, mercy for nothing.
And yet she had lowered herself so easily.
As though her own existence were merely a bargaining chip—useful, disposable.
He let out a quiet chuckle, one devoid of warmth, as he watched her settle at another table.
The dealer there stiffened almost imperceptibly. Cards were drawn. Dice rolled.
She won again.
He could not tell the sum, but the murmurs around the table told him enough. It wasn’t luck.
Skills, then.
Interesting—but not worth lingering on.
Her kind always fell the fastest. Those who treated themselves as expendable tended to discover, far too late, that the abyss was eager to agree.
With that, he turned away, interest already fading, and raised a hand for another drink.
I was exhausted.
No—exhausted was too clean a word for what I felt.
My limbs burned with a dull, persistent ache that no rest could fully soothe, and every breath felt borrowed rather than owned.
The journey from the farm to the Imperial City alone would have been tolerable under normal circumstances.
Tedious, perhaps, but survivable.
Adding the descent into the underworld turned it into something else entirely.
And I was far from normal.
My leg dragged slightly as I moved, numbness flaring into sharp protest whenever I misjudged my weight.
The cane—nothing more than a shaped piece of wood I’d abandoned near the entrance—could no longer be of help.
Hours had stretched into something shapeless.
Time blurred. Only one thing carried me forward.
Rest.
The promise of it.
The idea that if I endured just a little longer, I could finally stop.
Adrenaline did the rest.
By the time I arrived, I had nothing to offer.
No money. No possessions worth naming.
So I wagered the only thing I had left.
My body.
The reaction had been predictable—sharp intakes of breath, murmurs thick with hunger and disbelief, eyes that crawled over me as though assessing livestock rather than a person.
I endured it all without flinching.
Because I already knew the outcome.
The [All-Seeing Eye] activated quietly, the world shifting into higher layers of observation and motion.
Cards ceased to be objects and became flat.
Dice traced arcs before they were ever thrown.
Hands twitched, pupils dilated, breath hitched a fraction too early.
Most players called this skill useless.
They weren’t wrong.
On its own, it was nothing special—an ultimate support skill cursed with the misfortune of belonging to someone without power to complement it while taking a whole slot.
Mages used it to peel secrets from spells.
Swordmasters used it to step half a second ahead of death itself changing the course of a battle.
And strategists?
We gained distance.
Perspective.
A mind sharpened enough to process what others ignored.
There was no place in the world where such a skill shone brighter than a casino.
Still, even with certainty in my grasp, I had to be careful.
The house always wins.
Winning too much would invite questions. Attention.
Men who smiled politely while arranging for accidents to occur in alleyways.
So I kept my bets small. I lost occasionally.
Won narrowly. Just enough to seem fortunate rather than threatening.
Coins clinked into my palm—light, almost disappointing.
But sufficient.
Months of living expenses secured.
As I stood, a dealer glanced at me with narrowed eyes, suspicion warring with relief.
Someone muttered a curse under their breath.
Another laughed too loudly, pretending the tension hadn’t crept into their bones.
I moved on.
Because money was never the goal.
I was here for him.
The man who owned this place.
The one whispered about in the underworld as though his name itself were a spell.
The man who never lost.
And as I limped deeper into the heart of the casino, leaning on my cane, I allowed myself a single, thin smile.
My real gamble will begin.
—-
I reached the door at the deepest end of the casino.
It was massive—too large for something meant to be opened often—its surface carved with layered mana spells and inlaid veins of emerald crystal that pulsed faintly, like a slow, sleeping heartbeat.
Sound did not pass through it.
Neither did light. Whatever lay beyond was deliberately severed from the chaos outside.
This was it.
Behind this door waited Avesta.
The so-called God of Gamblers.
A man who, according to legend, had never truly tasted defeat.
A previously very powerful unit in the game.
A man whispered about in reverent tones even among those who trafficked in probability and deceit.
It was said that anyone who managed to defeat him would be granted any wish—wealth, power, miracles, even things that should not exist.
I knew him far better than most.
In the game, Avesta was a limited character—one of the strongest support buffers at launch.
A unit so absurdly efficient at farming that entire metas warped around his existence.
Skills that were easy to set up, buffs that felt less like enhancements and more of a game changer.
Back then, players joked that they would never lose with Avesta in your account.
I pushed the door open.
The room beyond was surprisingly subdued.
No blaring lights, no roaring crowds. Just velvet drapes, soft emerald lamps, and the scent of expensive wine steeped in something sharper—danger, perhaps.
Avesta sat at the centre, reclined comfortably on a curved sofa, surrounded by women dressed in immaculate bunny outfits.
They laughed easily, leaned close, fed him grapes and whispered promises that were never meant to be kept.
He swirled wine in his glass with idle grace.
His attire was… modest. A fitted suit, long trousers, no excessive ornamentation.
If not for where he sat, one might mistake him for a wealthy patron rather than the master of this place.
Golden hair framed his face, a single braid falling neatly over his shoulder.
His eyes—long, slit, almost reptilian—were half-lidded, concealing far more than they revealed.
As I approached, the women noticed me.
Their gazes lingered—first on my posture, then on my face.
I caught fragments of murmured amusement, faint curiosity, and something closer to disdain.
A crippled girl wandering into the lion’s den made for good entertainment, it seemed.
Avesta’s eyes finally lifted to meet mine.
For a heartbeat, the room went quiet.
Then he smiled.
With a lazy wave of his hand, he dismissed the women, his voice smooth, playful—almost indulgent.
“Run along. Our guest deserves my full attention.”
They obeyed immediately, filing out without protest.
He snapped his fingers.
A soft warmth washed over me. Mud dissolved from my clothes, grime evaporated from my skin, dried blood vanished as though it had never existed.
Even the ache in my joints dulled slightly—not healed, merely soothed.
It's seems he preferred clean looking players.
I didn’t have the energy to thank him.
Instead, I went straight to the point.
“I’d like a standard wager.”
That, at least, earned me his full attention.
Avesta straightened slightly, the amusement in his eyes sharpening into interest.
When you gambled with him, there were no real limits. Money was the most boring currency he accepted.
Lifespans. Memories. Names. Fate itself.
He could take it all.
That was the nature of his ability—
[Primordial Arbiter of Odds].
A skill that allowed him to place wagers on the very fabric of creation, turning existence into a table where even destiny could be rolled like dice.
He gestured invitingly.
“And what would you like to bet, little girl?”
I met his gaze, my voice calm despite the pressure pressing down on the room.
“I’ll wager information.”
He paused.
The wine in his glass stilled.
“I’ll tell you,” I continued evenly, “who was behind your mother’s death.”
The words had barely left my mouth when the world reacted.
Green light exploded outward, flooding the room in violent brilliance.
The air screamed as mana surged unchecked, crushing down like a tidal wave.
The symbols etched into the walls flared to life, cracking under the strain.
Avesta rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion.
Gone was the lazy smile. Gone was the playful indifference.
For the first time, the God of Gamblers looked alive.
His aura roared—ancient, furious, and razor-sharp—coiling around him like a living thing.
I felt it then.
I had touched a nerve.
And in that instant, I knew—
This was no longer an ordinary gamble.
It was a declaration of war.
—
Long before the name Avesta came to command reverence and dread, before men called him the god of gamblers, he had been nothing more than a boy who feared coming home too late.
He was born a commoner.
The only family he had was his mother.
His father had died early, taken by sickness that lingered too long and healed too little.
What remained was a narrow home that creaked with age and a woman whose hands were always trembling, not from weakness, but from exhaustion.
She worked until her back bent, until her cough worsened, until each breath sounded heavier than the last.
Avesta saw all of it.
He learned early that effort alone could not save her—so he learned faster than what was demanded.
He read what others ignored, memorised what others forgot, understood what teachers could barely explain.
Through relentless discipline, he earned a place in a school meant for those far above his station.
When his mother heard the news, she laughed through tears.
Not because life had grown easier—but because her child had found a future.
She began to save.
Not for medicine. Not for food.
For him.
Coin by coin, sacrifice by sacrifice, she scraped together enough to buy a gift.
Something small, something warm.
Proof that she had believed in him
from the very beginning.
On her way home, she crossed a noble carriage.
She stumbled.
That was all.
Inside the carriage sat a noble infamous not for power, but for cruelty—a man who viewed suffering as entertainment and commoners as filth beneath his wheels.
The mistake was unforgivable.
When Avesta returned home, there was no light waiting for him.
The house was burning.
The smell reached him first—smoke, ash, something darker.
And placed before the ruined doorway, as if meant to be seen, lay his mother’s head.
Her eyes were open.
Her face bore the marks of prolonged torment, the kind meant to break something far deeper than flesh.
Even in death, terror clung to her expression.
Avesta collapsed.
He screamed until there was no sound left in him.
He cried until the world narrowed into nothing but fire and blood and grief that had no shape.
And in that ruin, Avesta made a vow.
He would find them.
No matter what it cost.
So he gambled.
Not with wealth.
Not with life.
But with himself.
He wagered his existence on never letting go of that vow.
Something answered.
Power bloomed—not gentle, not merciful, but exacting.
Avesta learned its rules through pain and discipline. He started small, cautious, refining control rather than ambition.
He did not rush.
He understood that recklessness was merely another form of loss.
As he grew, so did his reach.
He learned to take from others what they believed immutable—years they assumed were theirs, fortune they believed earned, futures they took for granted.
Each wager tightened the chain that bound him to his vow.
Time passed.
He defeated monsters, tyrants, and even beings worshipped as divine.
And still—nothing.
The noble family remained hidden.
Avesta could not stop.
He could not walk away.
Because the wager he had made was not one he could afford to lose.
Leon stood beneath the oppressive force radiating from Avesta, her body screaming as if crushed beneath an invisible weight.
The air itself felt hostile, vibrating with restrained violence.
Yet she did not kneel.
Her words had been precise.
Cruel.
Deliberate.
And devastating.
“If I’m lying, take my time. Take my fate. Take everything.”
Her silver eyes did not flicker.
“There’s no escape either way.”
The room trembled.
For a heartbeat, it felt as though Avesta might tear her apart where she stood.
Then—
The pressure eased.
The green aura withdrew, coiling back into him like a blade being sheathed.
Avesta exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around his glass before he set it down.
“I will make sure you regret this,” he said softly.
Not in anger.
In certainty.
By all rules, he should have chosen the game. He always did. That was how it worked.
But the woman before him—broken, weak, yet bold enough to touch the one wound that never healed—had forfeited mercy and earned something else.
His full wrath.
“Seeing your confidence I will let you choose a game,” Avesta continued, eyes narrowing with intent, “then I will crush you at what you believe yourself best at.”
Leon did not hesitate.
“Chess.”
For the first time in countless years, Avesta’s smile was not amused.
—-
Avesta had a second part to his ability.
[Blessing of the Goddess of Fortune].
Once a game was agreed upon, the skill activated automatically. It did not rewrite reality outright.
Instead, it adjusted the result layer of the chosen activity.
The more good Avesta was at that game the decisions he made were subtly guided toward a favourable branch.
In short an all purpose guide.
In casino-related games, this effect was absolute. Cards, dice, wheels—any system involving randomness became a closed loop.
In fights it was more of a guaranteed debuff on monsters unless they were classified as Higher intelligence.
The moment Avesta sat down, defeat ceased to be a valid endpoint.
Chess, however, occupied a grey zone.
It was recognised in this world as a structured strategy game, recently imported and still undergoing theoretical development.
Openings were still rudimentary.
Creativity was viewed as recklessness.
Sacrifice was considered ignorance.
So it's was her best choice at winning
The board was set along with the pieces.
Leon started by offering her pawn.
Avesta accepted the pawn.
A small certainty. The kind the Goddess favoured.
The board remained balanced, obedient, familiar.
Leon did not hurry to amend what she had given away.
Her pieces drifted outward—bishop, knight, rook—quiet arrivals, as though they had always belonged there.
Her king stayed where it was, uncovered, unattended.
To Avesta, the position felt incomplete.
To the Goddess, it was harmless. Every future still curved gently toward him.
So why did the air grow heavy?
He advanced, trusting the rhythm that had never betrayed him. Leon answered without delay, yet without reply—no challenge, no retreat.
She did not meet his intent. She placed pieces as one might place stones by a river, not to block the current, only to mark where it passed.
Then the knight stepped forward.
And stopped.
Offered without urgency. Without apology.
A piece laid down, not in protest, but in quiet conclusion.
The room stirred. Avesta did not.
The Goddess did not show him the path yet.
There was nothing wrong with taking it.
And yet, as his hand hovered, a strange pressure settled in his chest—an unease without shape or reason.
He captured the knight.
The board opened.
Not violently. Not suddenly.
Leon’s remaining pieces moved as if answering a call Avesta could not hear.
Checks followed, calm and measured.
Each one felt less like an attack and more like a statement already decided.
Avesta defended.
Reached for the Goddess.
Nothing came.
What disturbed him was not the loss of ground, but the manner of it.
Leon did not look at the captured square.
Did not pause.
Did not mourn.
Her pieces vanished without weight, without residue, as though they had never been possessions to begin with.
Across from him, she sat utterly still.
Not watching him.
Not waiting.
Alone—with the board, with the pattern she had set in motion.
Another move.
Check.
Avesta searched for resistance, for some branch where fortune might yet turn the tide.
Every path narrowed. Every answer led back to the same quiet pressure, closing in from all sides.
Only then did he understand.
Luck guided those who reached for outcomes.
Leon did not reach.
She played as one who expected nothing, feared nothing, and therefore lost nothing when she let go.
To Avesta, that silence was unbearable.
Not hostility.
Not contempt.
But distance.
She was not trying to win in a casual wat.
She was simply letting the game finish.
And in that solitude, he felt something colder than what seemed to be soon his defeat settle into him—
The one before him was certainly not human.
