From the second floor balcony, a shadow moved. A man with a scarlet birthmark covering half his face descended the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. His presence alone silenced the nearby gamblers.
Red Face, leader of the Gambling association, was not a man who placed personal bets often. When he did, fortunes were made or lost. Without a word, he set a heavy black storage pouch on the counter before Fatty Ben. The pouch rang with the unmistakable sound of 20 million mana crystals.
Gasps swept the hall. Even seasoned gamblers stiffened in their seats.
"Twenty million," Red Face said, his deep voice as heavy as an iron gate swinging shut. "Against Kent King. Fifth round will be his grave."
Fatty Ben's eyebrows shot up, and then his wide lips stretched into a grin so broad it nearly split his face. He stood up, clasped his hands in respect, and personally accepted the pouch, his fingers curling around the weight of a sum large enough to buy a small sect.
