Gregorian Empire — Province of Numidia
Port City of Cartag
The glow of the blue moon blanketed the entire city in an atmosphere of charm and restless energy. Streets illuminated by lanterns and lamp posts stretched endlessly, every corner hosting taverns, inns, and brothels alike.
Yet among the many cobblestone streets, one structure stood above the rest like a crown jewel—the largest and most ostentatious building in the financial district.
Casino O Dystychís.
The most exclusive establishment in the city. Only a few hundred ever entered. Most left bankrupt or drowning in debt.
Inside, daughters of wealthy noble families from the province served drinks alongside the courtesans who managed the place. Renowned merchants attended solely to discuss business, while only the most accomplished adventurers dared test their luck at the tables.
Brock greeted a particular courtesan with unmistakable familiarity. The massive berserker and the elegant woman exchanged pleasantries as though bound by a shared past.
Brock: —"You're radiant, Fiona."
The mature courtesan smiled cautiously, returning the compliment in a soft voice.
Fiona: —"So you really came, Durham-kun."
Brock's expression darkened slightly.
Brock: —"You know I hate honorifics."
Fiona let out a subtle sigh, seeing that the pain still lingered deep within those dark eyes.
Fiona: —"I'm sorry, Brock… It's just—after all these years of inviting you, you show up unexpectedly… and with guests."
Brock smiled again, scratching the back of his neck with faint embarrassment.
Brock: —"I'm a mercenary now, Fiona. They're my comrades."
He introduced each member of the group one by one. Fiona greeted them politely and guided them toward the gaming tables, where beautiful slaves attended every station—competitions, card games, roulette, and countless other forms of gambling.
Raymond's face was practically glowing with joy, exaggerated enough that several people glanced his way in curiosity. Fiona clearly wanted to keep speaking with Brock, but Sam grabbed Brock by the arm and asked bluntly:
—Want to partner up and make a fortune tonight?
Brock didn't even try to hide his grin.
Brock: —"What do I have to do, lucky charm Raymond?"
—Just follow me and explain the rules of every game.
Brock: —"Deal."
With intensity, passion, and wicked smiles, the two clasped hands—sealing what looked suspiciously like a demonic pact fueled by pure greed.
They sat at a six-player table as a slave dealer handed out cards. Brock explained the rules and betting structure to Raymond.
The tension at the table was thick. Everyone masked their expressions, eyes fixed on their single card.
Bets were placed—50 gold. Someone doubled to 100.
Then Raymond, smiling like a creature born of chaos, dropped a subspace pouch containing one thousand gold coins onto the table.
Every gaze—both at the table and nearby—locked onto him with the same thought:
How could a slave afford a subspace pouch like that?
The dealer handed out the cards.
Brian revealed his.
21. Perfect score.
Brock burst into laughter, and Sam—practically vibrating—shouted:
—High five, damn it!
The berserker raised an eyebrow.
Brock: —"What's a high five?"
Clap.
A new sound echoed—clean, sharp, oddly satisfying. A pleasant sting lingered on the palm.
Brock grinned, energized.
Brock: —"That shouldn't be called a high five. That's the Clash of Victory."
—Whatever you say. Keep going?
Brock: —"Absolutely."
Ten consecutive rounds later, Quincy spoke as if it had developed a conscience.
[I feel bad for the NPCs, Master… THIS IS SO UNFAIR! (ノ ⊙ ▭ ⊙ )ノ]
—Unfair? These stats weren't free. I lost all my remaining money and didn't even get to spend it. Screw them if they don't like it.
[Master, aren't you worried about drawing too much attention? ¯\( ͠ᵔ ︹ ͡ᵔ)/¯]
—A little. But it's fine—Brock worships the god of luck, so winning this often is a solid cover.
Everyone stared at me like I'd lost my mind…
…and that's when it hit me.
I was talking to Quincy out loud.
For the umpteenth time, embarrassment crushed me.
"FOR F—'S SAKE!! I hate this shit. I'm not crazy, I swear… There goes my reputation as the world's first medieval card counter—straight down the drain."
I inhaled. Exhaled.
Time to recover socially—by brute force.
Round after round. Game after game. Betting like a lunatic. Jumping from table to table.
As the night went on, fortune became my constant companion—and financial ruin followed everyone else.
Until everything finally exploded.
Nobles' heirs, merchants, adventurers—even some courtesans—were furious at Brian's unbroken streak. Complaints flooded in, accusing the casino owner of allowing a slave to cheat.
Many—especially nobles and adventurers—demanded compensation.
That's when Governor Acrisius entered the scene, wearing a dark robe accented with a sky-blue toga.
Courtesans and slaves knelt the moment he appeared—some nearly prostrating themselves in something disturbingly close to worship.
Debora and Noelle were drinking mead at the luxury bar. Neil and Jeff were in the competition area when Acrisio stormed in.
Everyone converged on the center of the uproar.
That's when they realized the culprits were Sam and Brock.
Hundreds of accusing fingers pointed their way.
The slaves managing the tables remained silent—as if this wasn't the first time.
Brian stood alone.
Everyone against him.
Acrisio demanded an explanation, though his face already carried the weight of judgment.
But then—
***
POV — BRIAN
I raced through options, plans, anything.
"If I raise my charm, it'll cause chaos like with the Nymphs and Aphrodite… but if I don't, they'll strip me of everything I've won."
Processing at breakneck speed, a thought clicked.
"Combine charisma… with bribery."
I whispered to Quincy to adjust my charm to 0.09%—then activated my first skill.
[Skill «Dimensional Charm» Activated]
I spoke.
—Esteemed guests, I understand your frustration at witnessing luck so clearly favored by the gods. Kairos has been generous with me tonight, and to properly apologize for your inconvenience—
—I invite everyone here. Every drink. On me.
Silence.
Cold crawled up my spine under the weight of countless stares—
Then the room erupted.
—"MY DAY WAS RUINED BY A SLAVE, BUT MY NIGHT IS SAVED BY A HANDSOME ONE!"
—"That's what a slave with money should do—give it all to the nobles!"
—"This must be that famous slave of Count Klandhor!"
—"TONIGHT, ON DONTSUN, WE DRINK AS DIONYSUS COMMANDS!"
I forced a laugh and smiled while thinking:
"Did common sense take a sabbatical here?"
The owner approached and whispered into my ear.
Acrisius: —"Accompany me to my mansion tonight, little one."
Instant revulsion.
FIRST, STOP BEING A CREEPY OLD BASTARD.
Outwardly, I smiled.
— I must decline. However, I'll offer 30% of my winnings to avoid misunderstandings.
The old man smiled, far more pleased. He raised my hand and announced:
Acrisius: —"Because this slave has pleased me, all the drinks he's offering—I, Acrisius, Governor of Cartag, shall cover them in his stead!"
The cheers doubled.
I knew exactly what he'd done.
"If he pays, more of my money stays here… AHHH. Slimy old fox."
[HAHAHAHA—his move backfired, Master. ( ≖ ᴗ ≖ )✌]
—Shut up.
Acrisio looked at me sharply.
Acrisius: —"What did you say?"
—I said thank you for your generosity.
He patted my head.
I nearly gagged.
Acrisius: —"I'll have Fiona prepare the suite for you and your companions. If you change your mind, tell any courtesan—they'll bring you straight to my mansion."
One last polite response—because one more word and I'd kill him on the spot.
—Thank you for your kindness.(LEAVE. NOW. OR I LEVEL THIS PLACE WITH A PUNCH.)
***
Hours Earlier…
Lichstein Kingdom — Count Valentine's Estate
Southern Farmlands
The scorching afternoon sun pressed down as sweat marked the soil during harvest. Oxen dragged plows through the earth, potatoes surfacing between the furrows.
Slaves gathered the crops, stuffing them into straw sacks—then hoisting them onto their shoulders, hauling them to the wagons. Over and over. Until the fields were bare.
Ryan, utterly exhausted and at his limit, longed silently for water. His gaze fell on his father.
Richard carried two sacks at once, helping others when they faltered. Sweat poured from his brow, clothes soaked and caked with mud.
Ryan swallowed hard, clenched his teeth, and lifted another sack.
"I can't afford to be weak… I'm grateful my little brother Sam isn't here."
Richard's breathing was heavy. His stamina was nearly gone.
Ryan didn't know it—but his father had been demoted. No longer a foreman. Just another slave.
From time to time, Richard glanced at his son, noticing the effort, the resolve.
It stirred something deep in his soul—though he refused to cry.
He knew only one thing:
He could not falter.
Even if exhaustion felt like carrying tons on his back.
Hours passed. Night fell.
The slaves returned.
Ryan collapsed.
Richard, arms bruised and aching, lifted his son into his arms.
Back to the cabin.
Back home.