Jackpot on a Peaceful Weekend
"...I'm seriously going to die."
While everyone else enjoyed a leisurely weekend, I lay in bed complaining about muscle pain. Following Akasa's advice that it wasn't yet time to push my body to its limits every day, I'd taken a break—but even that was its own kind of torture. My body ached as it tried to recover, and all the pain I'd been holding back came rushing out at once, protesting the injustice of it all. The agony felt like it was tearing my entire body apart, far beyond anything I could endure. My molars ground together until I thought they might shatter.
This is the worst.
Just five days of that routine had been enough to drag up memories of my time in the Ant Cave. Sometimes the strain made me want to give up entirely and live alone, farming in some quiet corner of the world.
After a hearty breakfast, I'd attend magic and martial arts classes in the morning, skip lunch to start training immediately, push my body mercilessly until evening, down one of Akasa's special energy drinks, and then dive right back into training until I collapsed into bed. It was a schedule only someone consumed by the desire to improve could possibly maintain. Wake up, recover during morning classes, pour everything out in the afternoon, then sleep like the dead. If I hadn't secured a weekend pass, I might have gone insane.
Being Akasa's disciple really has its perks.
Mirinae Academy rarely granted outing passes unless there was a truly special reason. As a first-year who'd only just finished the first week of classes, it was even less likely. The academy believed students should be focusing on adapting to academy life, not wandering outside.
That's the official stance, anyway.
In reality, quite a few first-years managed to slip out. For example, if Velos, the crown prince of Sceria, asked a professor with family ties to Sceria for a pass, the professor would probably invent a reason just to approve it. That was an extreme case, but there were plenty of ways for first-years to leave the grounds. In my case, being Akasa's disciple meant she actively helped me obtain passes whenever I asked. She had the authority to issue them, and as long as I didn't cross any lines, she was usually willing to grant my requests. Getting outside was as easy as taking candy from a baby.
Time to head out.
After six hours of rest in bed, my body had recovered enough to move around. The training must have been working—my muscles were already starting to show some definition despite the short time frame. Normally, this level of intensity would destroy a body rather than build it, but something about me was clearly different.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Every step sent a heavy impact through the floor. With a body weighing at least 260 kilograms walking upright, it couldn't be helped.
Alright, time to go make some money.
Money. The essential resource for survival and the first requirement for acquiring better equipment. I needed to finish preparing for the disaster that was coming, and I needed to do it fast.
Just earning a little here and there won't cut it.
I'd considered selling the heads of goblins in the black market, but it was too short-term and carried too high a risk of being discovered by the demons, so I'd abandoned the idea. Even if they didn't know it was me who'd killed those low-grade demons, they'd definitely be tracking the traces. The black market was out.
So what's left?
Living expenses were mostly covered by Mirinae, so that wasn't an issue. What I needed was a massive windfall. The easiest way to get one was by clearing dungeons. I'd create a fake identity, register at the adventurer's guild, and work as a mercenary. The problem was that even with a disguise, I'd have no achievements to prove my skills, so I'd have to start from the very bottom. That meant months of struggling just to climb a single rank while cleaning sewers—forget about getting rich quick.
Then there's only one option left: gambling.
If the black market and the adventurer's guild were both off the table, the only choice was the casino. It was the one place where I could hide my identity and make a quick score before disappearing. Time to show them how a veteran gambler does it.
A fake ID won't cost much. I'll buy one, throw on some thick clothes, and stick on a fake beard. That should do it.
Casinos didn't check identities too thoroughly. The place I was heading to would be even more lenient.
Let's hit it big.
"Kahahaha! Business has been booming lately!"
"Indeed it has, sir."
The sound of hearty laughter and the obsequious rubbing of palms echoed through the room. Casino owner Festford patted his massive belly with satisfaction as he lounged on his money-stuffed cushion.
"That's why robbing rich people is the best business there is."
"You're absolutely right, sir. Hehehe."
Sweet Dessert. The name alone sounded like a charming café, and the first floor did operate as a legitimate café for cover. But after going through a few special procedures, guests were guided underground to the casino's true form. Though it was illegal, its membership system and extremely high stakes attracted a steady stream of wealthy patrons.
"Even I think I'm a genius for coming up with the membership system."
"Exactly, sir. And setting it up right next to the academy, which is supposed to have the tightest security—it's like doing business in a tiger's den!"
The area around Mirinae Academy had excellent security. Festford had turned that very fact to his advantage by opening his casino just a short distance away. No one would ever suspect an illegal gambling den operating so close to the academy. Thanks to that bold move, the rich had flocked in droves, and Sweet Dessert's profits continued their steady climb.
"Rich people who've never made money through gambling are bound to lose. They just don't realize it."
"They all believe in their own success stories, don't they?"
Whether their success came from natural talent or hard work, anyone who hadn't made a fortune through gambling was destined to lose to the dealers. Yet the wealthy trusted their instincts and their winning patterns.
"They think, 'I've succeeded this far, so it'll work this time too!' But it won't!"
Festford exploited this weakness perfectly. He'd trained his dealers to let customers win big occasionally while ensuring they lost more overall, and he'd handpicked only the most talented ones. They were gambling demons in human form—gifted in the ways of the underworld.
"The membership system is pretty brilliant too."
"Only those who've been verified get told the procedure, and passing the procedure itself proves you're verified. It's a perfect logical loop! I'm impressed!"
"It's not a logical loop, it's design."
"Calling it a logical loop makes it sound more sophisticated, doesn't it?"
"Hmm, you're right. School-educated people really do think differently."
"It's all thanks to your brilliant leadership, Lord Festford. Hahaha!"
Struite, who was busy flattering him from the side, clapped enthusiastically. His praise wasn't without reason—every time he delivered a particularly good line, Festford rewarded him generously. Without that incentive, there'd be no reason to stick around someone who sprayed spit while laughing.
The underworld ran on business, not sentiment.
"People should start arriving soon."
"Yes, sir."
By the time the clock struck 1 a.m., the usual crowd of boisterous rich patrons had already gathered. Casinos thrived at night, so Festford stopped lounging and began getting dressed. Since most of his customers were wealthy, he needed to make appearances and keep them happy. Those who'd lost got tips and drinks. Those who'd won got cheers and clumsy winner's prayers. That was his job.
Hmm?
When Festford finished dressing and stepped into the casino floor, something felt off.
No screaming?
Normally, you'd hear the desperate wails of people who'd bet big chasing a fortune and lost, or the frustrated cries of those who'd bet small out of fear and won anyway. But today, there wasn't a single sound like that.
Instead, all he heard was roaring cheers and the heat of victory.
"Uwaaaaaah!"
"What the...?"
This wasn't the scene Festford wanted. He scanned the room quickly and found the source.
That guy.
At the slot machine "Lucky Triple Seven"—installed specifically to squeeze every last coin from customers—a middle-aged man with a long beard was spinning the reels. That part was normal. What wasn't normal was the result.
"7! 7! 7! 7! 7! 7!"
"Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!"
Every time the man pulled the lever, the crowd chanted like fanatics. Ding! As if responding to their voices, the slot machine did something it had never done before.
The first reel stopped on 7. Ding!
The second reel stopped on 7.
"No... no..."
Ding!
Despite Festford's desperate cry, the third reel also stopped on 7.
"J... Jackpot..."
The casino's very first jackpot had been hit.
"...Grab that guy. Now."
It was Sweet Dessert's first major incident.