Peter stepped through the gates of Monte Carlo Gambling University, and for the first time, he truly felt the weight of where he was. The campus was magnificent, unlike anything he had ever seen before. Gleaming marble pathways stretched out before him, leading towards grandiose structures of glass and steel that seemed to touch the sky. The university grounds were immaculate, each blade of grass perfectly trimmed, the fountains cascading with water so clear it looked like liquid crystal. Luxury cars—the kind Peter had only ever seen in magazines—lined the entrance, their polished exteriors gleaming under the sunlight. The students walking past were clad in designer suits, exuding confidence and elegance, as if they belonged to a world completely separate from his own.Peter, in stark contrast, stood there in his wrinkled navy-blue blazer, his shirt slightly untucked, and scuffed black shoes that had seen better days. His entire appearance screamed out of place, and he felt it more

Peter felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. The same mysterious, sharp-eyed boy from the lavatory. The one who had stared into Peter’s soul and whispered: “You have his eyes.” “The man I must gamble, beat, and kill.” Peter’s jaw clenched. The White Knight stood there, his presence as suffocating as before. His icy silver hair framed his sharp, angular face. His piercing gray eyes held no emotion—just an intense, unwavering stare, as if he had already planned every move, every outcome, every victory before Peter had even walked into the room. He was dressed immaculately, donning a tailored white suit with silver embroidery, making him look less like a gambler and more like royalty preparing for war. And yet, despite his composed exterior, there was something... unsettling about him. Something that made every hair on Peter’s body stand on end. The White Knight’s face expressionless “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.” Peter’s f

……..[BET DETECTED: QUEST ACTIVATED – POKER DUELROUND 3]Objective: Win the game.Reward: +5 EXP.Penalty: -3 EXP.SKILLS AVAILABLE:1.Probability Vision2.Pattern Recognition Detector3.Tactical Vision4.Second Chance5.GAMBLER PROFILE….. Peter’s breathing was ragged, his pulse erratic. His hands trembled under the table, but he refused to let Dante see it. Refused to let anyone see it. He had played twice. Lost twice. And both times, it had felt like he was drowning—like no matter how hard he struggled, Dante had already seen the outcome.Poker was supposed to be a game of risk, of uncertainty. But against Dante, it felt like the outcome had been scripted from the start.That cold, emotionless stare. That unshakable confidence. That smirk.Peter hated that smirk.It was worse than an insult. Worse than Dante laughing in his face. It was pity.And that was something Peter Donovan could not stand.He had tried playing without the system. He had trusted his own

Peter’s breath came in ragged bursts, his pulse thundering against his skull like war drums. The weight of four consecutive losses settled over him like an avalanche, crushing, suffocating, relentless. He had nothing left but this final stack of chips—his last 100,000 euros.The room felt colder, though that was impossible. It was his own body betraying him, drenched in sweat despite the climate-controlled, luxurious interior of The Ace Court.All around, spectators whispered, their eyes flickering between him and Dante. Some with pity, some with amusement, but worst of all—some with boredom.Because at this point, they already knew how this would end.Just like the last four times.Defeat.Crushing. Overwhelming. Absolute.Dante sat across from him, calm, collected, untouched by pressure. His silver hair, pristine and unruffled. His posture, unwavering. His expression, that same unreadable mask of quiet superiority.He wasn’t even trying to humiliate Peter.That was what mad

Peter returned home, dragging his feet through the doorway like a man carrying the weight of an entire casino on his back. The house felt emptier than usual, though nothing had changed. His body ached—not from physical exhaustion, but from the sheer emotional weight of the loss. Five games. Five humiliating defeats. And more than three million euros down the drain. His chest tightened at the thought. He had never even stood a chance.As he stepped further inside, his eyes landed on Noir, sprawled lazily on the couch, one leg draped over the other. She was dressed casually—an oversized shirt hanging just enough to reveal one smooth, bare shoulder. A glass of red wine rested between her fingers, the deep crimson swirling as she absentmindedly tilted the glass in slow circles.She didn’t even glance at him as she spoke.“How was the game?”Peter sank onto the sofa beside her, exhaling heavily as he let his head fall back. His limbs felt heavier than lead.“I lost.”Noir finally t