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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: FusionX
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A peaceful weekend.
“…I think I’m dying,” I groaned, lying in bed, muscles screaming in protest.
Acasa had advised against overexerting myself every day, so I was resting. But even resting was proving to be a challenge.
As my body began to recover, the suppressed pain resurfaced with a vengeance, tearing through me like jagged shards of glass. It was far from bearable, grinding my teeth to dust.
This is the worst.
Five days of this brutal training, and already, memories of my time in the ant nest were flooding back. There were moments when I was so exhausted that I considered giving up everything, living alone as a farmer.
A hearty breakfast, followed by morning classes in Magic and Other Studies. Skipping lunch to head straight to training, pushing myself relentlessly until evening. Then, fueled by Acasa’s special energy drink, I’d train again until bedtime. It was a schedule only possible for someone driven by an insatiable desire for improvement. Waking up, recovering during morning classes, pushing myself to the limit in the afternoon, and collapsing into sleep. If I hadn’t secured weekend outings, I might have gone insane.
At least being Acasa’s disciple has its perks.
Mirinae Academy rarely granted outing permits, especially to first-year students still acclimating. Leaving the academy at this stage was considered detrimental.
That’s the official stance, anyway.
Unofficially, several first-year students managed to secure outings. For instance, if Bellos, the crown prince of Skeria, requested an outing from a professor with family ties to Skeria, they would fabricate a reason to accommodate him. While an extreme example, there were numerous loopholes for first-year students to leave the academy. In my case, being Acasa’s disciple meant she actively supported my requests. She had the authority to grant outings, and as long as I didn’t overstep, she approved most of them. Leaving the academy was a piece of cake.
Time to go.
After six hours of rest, my body had recovered enough to move. The training was showing results; despite the short duration, I could feel my muscles developing. Normally, this level of exertion would damage the body, not strengthen it. This was definitely different.
Thud…thud…thud…thud…
Each step resonated heavily against the ground. A bipedal being weighing at least 260kg had that effect.
Let’s go make some money.
Money. Essential for survival and the primary requirement for top-tier equipment. I needed to acquire it as soon as possible, preparing for the impending disasters.
And for that, I need a lot of it, fast.
Selling Ungbak’s head at the black market was too risky and short-sighted. The Mains were likely still searching for clues, so it was best to avoid the black market altogether.
So what are my options?
Mirinae Academy covered living expenses, so that wasn’t a concern. What I needed was a windfall. The easiest way to achieve that was by clearing dungeons. I considered creating a fake identity, registering with the Adventurer’s Guild, and working as a mercenary. However, even with a disguise, I lacked the achievements to prove my skills, meaning I’d have to start from the bottom. That would take months, barely earning enough to survive, let alone achieve a windfall.
That leaves gambling.
With the black market and Adventurer’s Guild ruled out, the casino was my only option. I could conceal my identity, make a quick fortune, and disappear.
A fake ID is cheap. I’ll just wear thick clothes and a fake beard.
Casinos weren’t strict about ID checks, especially the one I had in mind.
Let’s do this.
It was time to show them what a veteran gambler could do.
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“Hahaha! Business is booming!”
“Indeed, sir!”
The boisterous laughter and the sound of obsequious hand-wringing echoed through the room. Festford, the casino owner, patted his large belly, reveling in his wealth.
“This is why taking money from the rich is the best.”
“You’re absolutely right, sir, hehehe.”
Sweet Dessert. The name suggested a charming café, and indeed, the first floor operated as one. However, after a few special procedures, one could access the true nature of Sweet Dessert: the underground casino. Despite its illegal operation, its membership system and high stakes attracted a steady stream of wealthy patrons.
“I’m a genius for implementing the membership system,” Festford boasted.
“Indeed, sir! And establishing it near the academy, known for its tight security! It’s like setting up shop in the tiger’s den!”
The area surrounding Mirinae Academy was known for its safety. Festford had exploited this, establishing his casino just outside the academy’s jurisdiction. He had perfectly capitalized on the assumption that no one would dare establish an illegal gambling den so close to Mirinae. This bold move attracted wealthy clients, and Sweet Dessert continued to flourish.
“These rich folks, they think they can win at gambling without any experience. They have no idea.”
“They’re blinded by their own success stories.”
Whether their success was innate or earned, those who hadn’t made their fortune through gambling were destined to lose. However, the wealthy clung to their intuition and their perceived patterns of success.
“They think their past successes will guarantee future ones, but they’re wrong!”
Festford exploited this flaw. He meticulously trained his dealers, hand-picked for their skills, turning them into gambling masters. They were talents of the underworld.
“The membership system is genius, too.”
“Only those who are verified know the procedures, and passing those procedures itself serves as verification! Brilliant, sir!”
“It’s not a ‘logic,’ it’s a design.”
“But ‘logic’ sounds more sophisticated, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm, you’re right. An educated man is different, after all.”
“All thanks to your benevolence, Festford, haha!”
Struite, standing beside him, showered him with flattery, clapping enthusiastically. This wasn’t without reason; Festford generously rewarded him for every well-timed compliment. Otherwise, why would he endure the company of such a boisterous individual? The underworld was devoid of sentiment, operating solely on business.
“It’s about time for the crowd to arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
After hours of idle chatter and boasting, the clock struck 1:00 AM. Knowing that his casino would soon be bustling, Festford put on his jacket. Most of his patrons were wealthy, requiring him to make appearances and cater to their whims. Offering tips and drinks to the losers, cheering and reciting a mock prayer for the winners – this was his routine.
Hmm?
As he surveyed the casino floor, he noticed something unusual.
No screams?
Normally, the air would be filled with the cries of those who had gambled big and lost, and the frustrated shouts of those who had bet small on high odds and won, lamenting their lack of courage. But tonight, there was an eerie silence.
Cheers erupted.
“What’s going on…?” he muttered, perplexed.
The only sounds were cheers and the thrill of victory. This wasn’t the scene he wanted. He scanned the room, searching for the cause, and finally, he found it.
That man.
Standing at the Lucky Triple Seven slot machine, installed to siphon off even the smallest change from his patrons, was a middle-aged man with a long beard. This was normal, but the results were not.
“Seven! Seven! Seven! Seven! Seven! Seven!”
“Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo!”
Every time the man pulled the lever, the crowd chanted in unison, like fervent followers.
Ding!
As if responding to their calls, the slot machine behaved in a way it never had before.
The first number to stop: seven.
Ding!
The second number: seven.
“No…no…” Festford whispered, his heart sinking.
Ding!
Ignoring his desperate plea, the third number also stopped on seven.
“J…jackpot…”
For the first time since its opening, Sweet Dessert had a jackpot winner.
“…Get him,” Festford ordered, his voice cold.
This was a major incident.
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