Chapter 5
Chapter 5
0-Won Regression -2
‘So that bastard must be Ho Cheonan.’
Dogwi observed Ho Cheonan carefully.
He won over one hundred gold taels in a single day?
And not from suckers, but from professional gamblers?
Dogwi quietly studied Ho Cheonan and thought:
How exactly is he beating professional gamblers?
The bastard playing tile games wasn’t even watching people shuffle tiles, nor paying attention when others drew their hands.
Then he simply folded and died.
He kept losing like that, then suddenly one round later he’d immediately place a huge bet the moment he received his hand.
Even then, nothing about him changed.
He didn’t look at his opponents.
He barely examined his own tiles properly.
Instead, he stayed busy staring at a passing waitress swaying her hips.
And yet—
He won.
‘No time left to keep observing.’
Dogwi spent roughly two gak after arriving at the pleasure house studying Ho Cheonan.
The bastard kept doing things no real gambler should ever do, yet his winnings continued growing nonstop.
Tile gambling was played by four people.
One of the pleasure house gamblers rose from the table with a pale face, and Dogwi took his seat.
“Fold.”
As expected, Ho Cheonan folded without even looking.
After the meaningless round among the remaining three players ended, Dogwi saw Ho Cheonan smiling.
‘This bastard…’
Ho Cheonan was smiling directly at him.
“Hey, brother. How about the two of us play some proper Daehang Dice together?”
Daehang Dice.
A gambling game where dice were tossed into a jar filled with complex internal structures, and players guessed whether the result would be odd or even.
The true essence of the game lay in psychological warfare and luck—how much money one committed and when.
Dogwi felt intense competitive spirit rise within him toward Ho Cheonan, who recognized his value after a single round.
“Fine.”
The table was prepared.
Rattle rattle rattle… thunk.
The dice bounced repeatedly through the jar’s internal structure before landing.
There was no way to know whether the result inside the Daehang Dice jar was currently odd or even.
Even someone highly skilled in reading dice couldn’t possibly understand the jar’s entire internal structure well enough to force desired outcomes.
“You take the first move.”
“Very well. One gold tael on odd.”
“Fold.”
The rules of Daehang Dice were simple.
Players alternated rolling the dice no matter what.
The loser of the previous round moved first and bet however much they wished on odd or even.
If the opponent accepted, they matched the amount on the opposite result.
Then both sides alternated adding more money, and whenever one side raised, the other had to at least match the amount.
After three rounds of betting, the jar was opened and the result revealed.
The next dice rolled.
“One silver tael on odd.”
“…One gold tael on even.”
“Fold.”
What the hell was this bastard doing?
Dogwi felt deep irritation.
Ho Cheonan was blatantly stalling by repeatedly placing tiny one-silver bets.
Ho Cheonan currently possessed around one hundred and ten gold taels worth of gambling tokens.
Was he trying to retain first-move advantage until he “felt” something?
Still, that tactic only worked twice.
If losing let someone endlessly retain initiative, then people like Ho Cheonan could simply drag games forever with minimum bets.
After folding twice consecutively, initiative returned to Dogwi.
Dogwi placed one gold tael.
Ho Cheonan folded again without hesitation.
And just like that, Ho Cheonan’s gold tokens rapidly dwindled.
“Damn, why can’t I get a feeling… fold.”
When his fortune dropped to eighty gold taels, Ho Cheonan finally shouted:
“Ah shit, one gold tael on odd.”
Dogwi hesitated briefly before accepting.
He needed to determine whether Ho Cheonan genuinely knew something before continuing the gambling match.
Only then could he establish proper judgment criteria for later rounds.
“I’ll take it.”
“Then two gold taels.”
“…Accepted.”
“Then four gold taels.”
This fucking bastard.
Dogwi bit down hard on his lip.
A seven-gold-tael pot was large, but considering the winnings he’d accumulated so far…
Maybe it was worth testing once.
“I’ll take it.”
For the first time since the gambling began, the jar was finally opened.
The result—
Odd.
What was this?
Did Ho Cheonan truly know the result inside the jar?
But this time Dogwi himself had rolled the dice.
Not his own throw, but someone else’s?
Daehang Dice had a special rule.
To prevent gamblers from learning the jar’s feel through repeated use, results from folded rounds were never revealed.
The dice were simply removed unseen.
Even so, Dogwi began wondering whether Ho Cheonan had somehow discovered a method to identify the jar’s results.
“Let’s switch jars. Agreed?”
“Fine by me.”
The jar was replaced and the gambling continued.
This time, after only two rounds, Ho Cheonan placed money on even.
Now Dogwi believed the match had finally become pure luck and betting psychology.
‘Long road ahead, but let’s humor him once more.’
“I’ll bet.”
Ho Cheonan pushed all the way up to seven gold taels.
Dogwi accepted.
The result—
Even.
Dogwi began demanding a jar change every single round.
The pleasure house complied.
Even spare jars stored away in the warehouse were brought out.
Fifteen different jars rotated through the game.
Yet the outcome never changed.
Whenever Ho Cheonan bet—
He stole seven gold taels like a ghost.
‘Insane bastard.’
Had an actual gambling demon possessed him?
How could he guess correctly every single time he bet?
Dogwi’s pride suffered immensely.
But his remaining ear and his hands were on the line.
No matter how humiliated he felt, this was the moment he had to bow.
“One tael on odd.”
“I fold.”
Ho Cheonan smiled slightly.
That smile sent heat surging all the way to Dogwi’s scalp.
At gambling tables, he was the type who stayed calm even while people cursed his parents.
But today felt different.
Ho Cheonan’s entire attitude mocked and insulted gambling itself.
And those eyes looking down on him—
“One tael on even.”
“I’ll take it. Since you’ll just raise to seven anyway, let’s settle it in one go.”
The result was even.
Dogwi clenched his fists hard enough to tremble.
“Ahhh~ sweet, so sweet.”
Dogwi glared furiously at Ho Cheonan—
But Ho Cheonan wasn’t even looking at him.
Despite possessing actual gambling [Skills], why was I still recognized at the Wanderers’ Inn as a hopelessly terrible gambler?
Because I deliberately lost money.
Now then.
To understand how someone possessing gambling skills could intentionally keep losing money, one first had to understand the underlying premise.
What determined difficulty in this game called [Murim Cheonha]?
The answer was simple.
[Reputation].
Reputation could basically be summarized like this:
“Your great name, Ho Cheonan, echoes throughout Sichuan so loudly my ears hurt from hearing it. This Transcendent Master named Jangsam admires your martial prowess and requests a duel. Draw your sword.”
What happened in martial arts stories when someone became famous?
Every kind of incident started revolving around them.
Petty flies chasing reputation.
Transcendent experts trying to forcefully take them as disciples.
Major factions seeking to recruit strong individuals.
And if your actual strength only amounted to second-rate martial arts skill?
You’d die unable to handle those situations.
Or at best, survive miserably.
This reputation system was precisely why I lived as a Sichuan wanderer, why I trained gambling skills among countless possible techniques, and simultaneously why I always lost money gambling.
Reputation rose whenever one acted.
Naturally, people gained fame gradually just by living and doing things.
And once reputation increased, the likelihood of encountering masters also increased.
That was why I’d spent seven whole years as a Sichuan wanderer.
Sichuan wanderers hid their faces beneath black hats and operated under [Anonymity], meaning reputation barely accumulated.
If I’d openly accepted jobs under the name Ho Cheonan instead, my reputation would’ve spread inevitably, and I’d already be living a life regularly meeting first-rate and transcendent experts.
Blocked by the wall of second-rate, I simply couldn’t handle increasing reputation through normal means.
What if my reputation grew large enough to move transcendent masters?
What if they developed killing intent toward me?
Training gambling skills followed the same logic.
Reputation gained through gambling depended entirely on profit.
How much money did one win through gambling?
How often?
How consistently?
A gambler’s fame rose accordingly.
But if I fully trained my gambling skills, then intentionally returned my winnings to zero afterward, the increase in reputation remained negligible.
Gambling was the only skill I could train freely while still managing reputation.
Currently, every gambling skill I possessed besides the luck-type skill [Intuition] had already reached mastery.
Not just within Sichuan, but probably across all Murim Cheonha, there were very few people who could surpass my gambling ability.
An absolute realm.
If I’d mastered any other skill to the same level as gambling, I’d become a legendary blacksmith on the level of Ganjiang and Moye, or a divine physician rivaling Hua Tuo himself.
Think about the reputation earned while reaching such mastery.
Saving countless people.
Forging countless weapons.
Would the fame generated by those acts remain small?
Of course not.
My name would become known throughout the entire world of Murim.
And then how would Ho Cheonan live?
If I were a craftsman, martial artists would visit daily demanding I become their faction’s exclusive blacksmith.
Among them might be transcendent psychopaths threatening to kill me unless I forged weapons for them.
And after making those weapons, perhaps they’d stab me to death claiming such divine weapons should belong only to them.
If I were a physician?
Some absolute master with a terminally ill daughter might kidnap me, threaten horrifying torture if I failed to save her, then force me into lifelong slavery prolonging her life while enduring endless agony every time her condition worsened.
This wasn’t imagination.
These were actual outcomes inside [Murim Cheonha] if one focused solely on skills while neglecting martial arts.
Transcendent masters weren’t common, so maybe careful preparation could avoid them once or twice.
But avoiding them forever until natural death?
Impossible.
Eventually, one of those miserable endings awaited.
A kind of [Bad Ending] or [Game Over] resulting from failing to train martial arts enough to support one’s reputation.
A normal player character without a limit realm could simply say:
“Fuck this, I’ll just train martial arts!”
Then spend several years in secluded cultivation raising their realm.
But I couldn’t.
I’d already reached my limit realm.
For me, reputation management wasn’t optional.
It was survival itself.
That was why I trained gambling while never keeping any winnings.
The only method allowing me to raise gambling skills without raising reputation.
And because of that, despite possessing gambling skill worthy of the title Gambling God, I always had no choice but to leave gambling houses completely penniless.