Chapter 189: The Victor

“Not just the casino and your money—now your life belongs to me as well, doesn’t it?”

With that cold and mocking voice cutting through the air, the once-boisterous casino instantly fell silent.

The elegant, gentle music had stopped at some point, replaced by a frigid hum. Sharp weapons slid out from sleeves, from within the walls, from under tables. The waiters who had been polite and refined a moment ago became thugs gripping blades and clubs.

Even the scantily dressed dealer girls suddenly had small repeating crossbows in hand—no one knew where they had pulled them from—all aimed at Muen.

Killing intent flooded the room.

In the blink of an eye, the man who had just won it all was now trapped like a prisoner.

“Kid, who the hell do you think I am?”

Sam glared at Muen, veins bulging on his forehead.

“I’m the Rat King Sam. The last guy who dared to cause trouble in my casino? The rats in the sewers have already chewed him to the bone!”

“Cause trouble? How could this be called causing trouble?”

Muen’s gaze was laced with mockery.

“It was you, Lord Sam, who agreed to play a few rounds with me. You set the rules. You lost it all. You even cheated. And now, the first one to flip the table... is still you.

“So tell me—who exactly is causing trouble here?”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

Sam’s rage boiled over, his ugly face twisting with savagery.

When had he ever been toyed with like this?

Never!

From the day he set foot on this path, he had always been the one to toy with others.

And yet...

Sam’s gaze swept over Muen’s face, his fury becoming harder to control.

The one to humiliate him turned out to be some nouveau riche from the Northern Territory?

The Rat King Sam, fooled by one of ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) those famously dumb, deep-pocketed northerners—if word of this got out, he’d be the laughingstock of the entire Lower City within a day!

He would never allow that.

“Kid, I’ll admit it—this time I took a loss.”

Sam sneered.

“But you’re new here. You don’t seem to understand...

“In the Lower City, winning or losing has nothing to do with luck or skill. What decides victory... is always strength.”

Sam hooked his finger on the trigger of his military-grade magic repeating crossbow—a weapon powerful enough to pierce even a magic beast’s scale armor. The familiar weight steadied him. He studied Muen carefully, wanting to see just a flicker of fear on the man’s face.

But the man, surrounded by thugs and with over a dozen crossbows aimed at him, remained calm.

He even took the time to glance at the dealer girls with crossbows, as though wondering from where they had pulled out something that big while dressed so lightly.

“Mr. Sam, I advise you not to do that.”

Muen turned his gaze back—not at all looking at the weapon that could kill him in an instant—his tone almost earnest.

“A dangerous thing like that can easily hurt someone.”

“Fuck you, I’m about to hurt you!”

Muen’s composure shattered Sam’s control. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

Whoosh—

The bolt tore through the air with a sharp hum.

It hit square in the forehead, and under the boost of powerful magic, the head exploded instantly, spraying red and white in every direction.

The smell of blood thickened in the air.

Once again, the atmosphere froze. The only sound was a helpless sigh.

“Why wouldn’t you listen to me, Mr. Sam?”

Having leaned slightly aside to dodge the bolt, Muen adjusted his tilted top hat and glanced regretfully at the headless corpse behind him.

It was one of the thugs who had been blocking his escape route. Now he was dead—killed by the Rat King’s crossbow.

“You see? All I have to do is dodge, and someone else ends up unlucky. I told you it was dangerous. Why wouldn’t you believe me?”

“You son of a—!”

The Rat King’s face twisted even more hideously. He didn’t even need to give the order—over a dozen repeating crossbows were already aimed and ready to fire.

You dodged one—could you dodge over a dozen?

Let’s see if I don’t turn you into—

“Wait... Wait, everyone stop! All of you, put down your weapons, now!”

But just as the volley was about to be loosed, Sam’s savage expression shifted in an instant—replaced by sheer terror.

He stared at Muen’s hand as if he had seen something unbelievable, his voice losing its strength.

“Put them down! All of them, right now! Hurry!”

The thugs exchanged puzzled looks. Their boss could kill the man with one word—so why was he suddenly losing his mind?

Still, since it was the boss’s order, they could only obey.

The frozen tension thawed, the killing intent dissipated—yet a strange, inexplicable unease filled the room.

Muen smiled faintly, dexterously flipping something between his fingers.

“Looks like you’ve noticed, Mr. Sam.”

“When...”

Sam’s face darkened, eyes fixed on Muen’s moving fingers.

There was no weapon there, no large-scale magic device—just a single playing card.

A playing card Sam knew very well.

Because that card should have been among the hand he’d thrown down—the card that was supposed to win him the game.

And now, it was in the hand of the man calling himself Bruce.

Without him noticing.

Instinctively patting his empty sleeve, recalling the sudden change in his hand earlier, cold sweat began to bead on Sam’s forehead.

If this man could take his card without him realizing...

“It means I can kill you before you even realize what’s happening.”

Muen helpfully finished the thought for him, then flicked the card toward him. It landed on the table before Sam.

“Just as you said yourself, Mr. Sam—this game never really mattered. The stakes, the cheating—that was just a bit of fun.

“What matters is... you sat across from me. Close enough for me to reach you. That’s all that was needed, isn’t it?”

Sam lowered his head, staring at the card still carrying his scent. His face lost all color, paler than the card itself.

“I thought it was just some sleight of hand,” he said, trembling.

“Sleight of hand? In a place like a casino, sleight of hand gets exposed very quickly.”

“Who... exactly are you?”

Sam lifted his head, staring at the stranger before him.

Only now did he realize—this wasn’t some dim-witted rich northerner. This was a monster from the shadows.

And he had naively thought he could win a game against a monster. What difference was there between that and offering himself up on a platter?

“Bruce Wayne.”

The man introduced himself again.

“Just a passing... ordinary citizen.”

“Ordinary citizen? Hah... What an ordinary citizen.”

Sam slumped into his chair, laughing bitterly.

“Fine, let’s say you are. Then, Mr. Bruce... what do you want from me?”

“Don’t worry.”

Muen laced his fingers together, smiling warmly like a gentleman.

“I just want Mr. Sam... to do me a small favor.”