"F**k you, dwarf!"
Anatoly spat out the insult in a thick Russian accent, his tone dripping with contempt, leaving no room for restraint.
Rost immediately exploded in anger."F**k you, you white pig!"
A louder uproar erupted from the crowd. That was a full-on verbal bomb.
"F**k @#%￥, you dwarf!" Anatoly snapped back furiously.
Amid the surrounding chaos—people cheering, jeering, and egging things on—Luke rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and deliberately slammed a fist down onto Rost. Using a cough to mask the octopus's muffled yelp, Luke calmly stepped forward and returned to his seat at the table.
"What do you want to play?"
Fixing Anatoly with a steady gaze, Luke asked in a calm, indifferent voice.
At this point, even without Rost provoking things, Luke couldn't let it go. That insult—he was going to return it.
If this Russian wants to lose everything, Luke thought coldly, then I'll make sure he does.
After all, he had come here tonight to stir up trouble.
So why not make it bigger?
From the very beginning, he had already prepared for things to escalate beyond control.
This was a casino in Hell's Kitchen—violence was inevitable.
Anatoly looked pleased with himself, as if provoking Luke was some kind of achievement.
He lit a thick cigar, holding it between his fingers, while his other arm wrapped tightly around the waist of the blonde woman beside him.
Tilting his chin upward, he said with disdain,"I'm bored of dice. Let's play blackjack. What do you say?"
Luke shook his head without hesitation."I don't know how."
"What? You don't?" Anatoly sneered. "You come to a casino and don't know blackjack? Fine. Then you tell me—what can you play, dwarf? Because I'm not losing to you."
He flicked ash from his cigar, raised an eyebrow, and added,"Anything but dice."
After a brief pause, he added,"That garbage? I'm done with it."
The words sounded confident, but deep down, Anatoly had been shaken by Luke's absurd luck at the dice table.
He had no intention of playing dice again.
Not after that.
None of the surrounding gamblers had left.
They were all eagerly waiting for what came next.
Someone suddenly shouted,"How about roulette? This place is literally called the Roulette Casino!"
The suggestion was instantly met with enthusiastic agreement.
"Roulette?"
Luke and Anatoly exchanged a glance.
"I'm fine with that," Anatoly said, spreading his hands casually, showing off the tattoos on his arms.
Luke frowned slightly, thought for a few seconds, then nodded.
"Alright. Roulette it is."
Roulette was one of the most common and globally popular casino games.
Typically, the wheel had 37 numbered slots. The dealer would spin the wheel clockwise and launch a small ball onto it. Wherever the ball landed determined the winning number.
Players could place bets on multiple outcomes—odd, even, red, black, high, low, ranges, rows, combinations—each with different odds.
Compared to dice, roulette was far more complex.
But—
At its core, it was still a game of luck.
And as long as luck was the deciding factor—
Luke had absolute confidence.
Leaning back in his seat, he appeared small in stature, but his presence was overwhelming.
"You seem very confident," Anatoly remarked.
"Not bad," Luke replied. His voice, altered by the voice changer, sounded low and slightly distorted. "I think everyone here already knows… I've won a lot tonight."
The crowd immediately erupted:
"GOD OF GAMBLING! GOD OF GAMBLING!"
The gamblers were visibly excited.
Some even suggested that the casino should open side bets—on whether Luke or Anatoly would win in the end.
Anatoly let out a cold laugh.
"Do you know what they call me here?" he sneered. "The King of Russian Roulette."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"And you think you can beat me?"
His Russian accent was thick.
His identity was no secret—he was part of the infamous Russian mafia in Hell's Kitchen.
Luke didn't bother answering.
Why? he thought.
Because with luck alone, I can make you kneel and beg.
Soon, casino staff transformed the table into a roulette setup, placing a standard wheel in front of them.
A new dealer was brought in.
This kind of one-on-one gambling duel was nothing unusual here. The casino handled it smoothly.
But tonight was different.
Luke's earlier performance had been too outrageous.
This new dealer—
Wasn't ordinary.
Luke noticed the thick calluses on specific parts of the dealer's fingers.
Unless someone played cards obsessively…
That didn't happen naturally.
There was also a slight bulge under his waistline—something concealed.
Not a simple guy, Luke concluded.
The dealer introduced himself as a certified professional from Las Vegas, assuring both players of his top-tier skills.
I bet your shooting skills are top-tier too, Luke thought.
Under the intense gaze of the crowd—
The duel began.
After seeing the roulette wheel up close, Luke became even more certain—
This wasn't like in movies.
There was no way a dealer could manipulate the outcome.
To make a tiny ball land precisely in a specific slot?
That was impossible—
Unless the dealer had telekinesis.
The wheel's layout was precise.
Even the slightest deviation would completely change the result.
Which meant—
This was almost purely luck-based.
Luke relaxed.
Casinos weren't run by fools.
If roulette existed everywhere, it meant it made money for the house.
Just like dice—
The rules always favored the dealer.
That was why people said:
"The house always wins."
But—
Not tonight.
Tonight, luck belonged entirely to Luke.
The result?
Predictable.
Round 1.
Luke bet on odd.
Anatoly immediately bet the opposite—even.
The ball landed on 17.
Odd.
Luke won.
The crowd exploded again.
"GOD OF GAMBLING!"
Anatoly's face darkened.
"Again!"
He refused to believe it.
Luck couldn't stay on one person forever.
Sooner or later—
It would turn.
But—
It didn't.
Round 2.
Luke bet odd again.
Anatoly stubbornly bet even.
The ball landed on 31.
Odd.
Anatoly's anger simmered like a volcano about to erupt.
He slammed the table.
"Again!"
Luke remained calm.
Behind the mask, a faint smile appeared.
Everything—
Was under control.
Round 3.
This time, Anatoly rushed first and bet odd.
Luke almost laughed.
Without a word, he placed his chips on even.
The wheel spun.
The ball shot across the surface at incredible speed.
Everyone held their breath.
Even Anatoly.
Finally—
The ball stopped.
2.
A very, very clear even number.
The crowd erupted.
Anatoly's face turned pitch black, his expression twisting with fury.
The blonde beside him tried to say something—
He shoved her away impatiently.
"Again!"
His eyes locked onto Luke like a starving Siberian wolf.
Cold.
Savage.
Luke placed his next bet without a word.
Behind the Iron Man mask, his smile slowly faded.
His gaze swept across the surroundings.
I brought 163 electric grenades tonight…
Yeah.
That should be enough.