The casino’s hubbub suddenly died, everyone holding their breath, eyes feverishly fixed on the three dice in the croupier’s hand. With a gentle toss, a storm of roars in every accent, screaming for every number, nearly tore the roof asunder. Hearts raced with the spinning dice, gamblers shouting their desired numbers hoarsely, as if their voices held mystical power.

  This was a small casino—no luxury boxes, no elegant games. Just one large “C”-shaped table, over ten meters long and four meters wide, with the croupier at its center. Gamblers had plenty to bet on: precise numbers, different combinations—high-risk, high-payout options. Less skilled ones often stuck to red/black or odd/even wagers.

  The table was cluttered with greasy, foul-smelling copper coins, the occasional silver coin winking among them, its sheen contrasting the squalor.

  The croupier wore a perpetually calm smile. A magic apprentice, his only mastered spell was Energy Hand. Once a top croupier in the Capital, he’d been caught cheating with friends, nearly executed—saved only by the Flame Rose Mercenary Group’s leader, who happened to pass through that dark alley. Now, he was a silent partner in this casino, owning a 50% stake and earning dozens of silver coins daily, despite standing at the table all day.

  As the dice settled in the throwing area, gamblers groaned or laughed maniacally. This was the casino’s way: swallow big bets rarely, pay out small wins often. This round had swallowed nearly ten silver in bets but paid out seven, netting a tidy three silver profit.

  This was gambling’s allure: seeing someone turn a handful of coppers into silver made others’ eyes redden with greed. Such luck happened every moment, and everyone believed they’d be the next lucky one.

  The gambler who’d borrowed ten silver from the casino supervisor watched those coins vanish into others’ pockets. His eyes flickered with desperation, shoving through the crowd and kicking open the quiet office door.

  “Lend ten more!” he hissed, his voice laced with madness.

  The supervisor crossed his arms, regarding him calmly. “Enough. You can’t repay twenty silver. We’ve known each other for years—you earn three silver a month. Not even ten silver is something you can repay on time.” After a breath, he added, “Calm down now. Go home and figure out how to pay this debt. Tomorrow it’ll be twenty-six silver—remember, after three days, I won’t be merciful.”

  He finished with a sigh, “Don’t blame me for being harsh; this isn’t my business. I work for others. Too many backers to offend—neither you nor I can afford to lose this money. Ask relatives or friends to help you patch the hole.”

  His soft-but-firm words weren’t out of kindness; he feared pushing the gambler too far, risking escape. Debtors had fled before, leaving him to take the fall and lose part of his earnings to compensate the casino.

  In truth, the borrowed money never left the casino—it just cycled back. But business required desperation: how else to profit from selling people into slavery?

  The gambler’s eyes burned, breath ragged, voice grating like rusted metal. “Ten more silver—just ten!”

  The supervisor shook his head coldly. Gamblers driven by greed couldn’t be trusted, and indulging them risked loss.

  A dangerous glint flashed in the gambler’s eyes. He lunged forward, grabbed the money bags on the desk, and ran. The supervisor was stunned—rarely had anyone dared rob the casino. Challenging the backers meant death; cheaters’ graves were already overgrown.

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  But robbery? A first in the casino’s history.

  He quickly blew his whistle, drew a foot-long machete from his drawer, and gave chase.

  The sharp whistle signaled the burly guards at the door to block exits. Usually handling debtors—beating them and selling to Harvey as slaves—they now faced an unusual threat.

  Gamblers, rarely pausing their games, stopped to watch—some amused, some hostile—as the chase emerged. The gambler didn’t run for the door; he charged toward the gambling table. The croupier sensed trouble too late: the man grabbed the bottom of the money bag and swung it hard, spilling dozens of tempting silver coins across the table.

  The crowd of gamblers froze, then erupted into madness. The table, already piled with bets, became a frenzy. No one cared about the settled dice now; they reached for the table, and the croupier could only watch as the bets that should’ve been the casino’s were snatched back. His face darkened—this round had cost seven or eight silver, plus the coins scattered on the table that rightfully belonged to the casino.

  Even the dullest knew this was intentional chaos.

  The supervisor’s face paled—robbery and rioting were entirely different matters. He swung his machete, but the gambler paused, hunched, and rushed back at him. In the supervisor’s disbelieving, horrified gaze, a knife plunged into his stomach.

  At the same time, someone shouted, “Run!”

  Those who’d grabbed silver coins reacted instantly, gathering copper and silver in their clothes and charging for the door. In an instant, the casino descended into chaos.

  Greed took over. When the gambler pushed aside the weakened supervisor, burst into the unlocked office again, and emerged shouldering two bags of money, everyone lost control. The office seemed to call to them, and the casino guards trying to block the crowd became targets. Each gambler held a mad belief: this was another gamble, betting that the casino’s backers couldn’t catch them, betting their lives against their desires.

  Seven or eight guards, who’d once swaggered, were no match for dozens of determined gamblers. They tried to block the mob, using their usual terror, until one fell, clutching his stomach.

  Outside, Harvey lit a tobacco roll made from fruit tree leaves, smiling at the brawling crowd and flicking ash proudly. He’d arranged it all, even selecting the gambler as his pawn. For a slave trader like him, finding a scapegoat was effortless.

  Soon, whistles blew from street-side police stations, their sounds merging into a continuous shrill. The moment “Someone’s dead!” was shouted, the security guards with clubs halted. A dead body changed everything: without death, they faced only beatable commoners. But with a death, these once-bullied commoners transformed into a rioting mob.

  This was Pramisburg—who went out without a blade?

  The riot had erupted less than five minutes ago, and the brawling and shouting continued inside. The security squad surrounded the casino, blocking exits, as a hundred city guards rushed over in disarray. The lead captain, hat askew, drew his sword and charged to the security squad, demanding, “What the hell is going on here?”