The Gambler's Revelation
The road from the capital to the Far East Maritime Province was brutally long and mind-numbingly dull. For days and nights spent rattling inside the shaking train car, Jean-Claude von Farenberg repeated to himself dozens of times why he had to travel to this barbaric backwater.
For Her Highness. For Princess Anastasia.
Anastasia’s favor. A single sweet night with Her Highness. She wasn’t interested in that worthless trash prince. No, her attention was fixed on the cat bitch hiding behind him, sucking up all the money. Laura Valeriano. It was only natural to secure useful pieces before the game even began. As a bonus, he would pick up a few crates of that so-called Mikhail Blue Label the trash had supposedly made. In the capital, it sold for whatever price the seller demanded, so it would easily cover his travel expenses and then some.
At long last, the endless journey came to an end. The moment the train finally stopped, Jean-Claude unconsciously wrinkled his nose at the sharp smell of the sea mixed with the damp odor of half-dried mud. After taking a carriage from the station, he soon heard the driver’s voice.
“We’ve arrived, Lord Farenberg.”
He reluctantly stepped down from the carriage. What spread out before him was a massive tent. A crude, shabby temporary structure of the sort used for festivals. Just as he had expected.
Of course. A rural backwater is still a rural backwater.
He irritably brushed off any dust that might have settled on his outer coat and headed for the entrance. A banquet held in a place like this could only be a low-class affair where local notables gathered, stinking of cheap liquor and dancing clumsily. In a town that had nothing worth seeing except that ‘Mikhail,’ what else could it be?
But the instant the tent’s heavy door opened, what invaded Jean-Claude’s nostrils was not the stench of stale sweat or cheap perfume. It was the faint, elegant scent of sandalwood. And layered with it, the rich aroma of perfectly roasted coffee beans and the bittersweet fragrance of high-grade cigars. An exquisitely refined and expensive scent.
“……!”
His steps faltered without him realizing it. The scene unfolding before his eyes completely shattered his expectations. There were no nobles dancing. No groups engaged in trivial chatter. Instead, the vast space was filled with low excitement and restrained tension.
In the center, an enormous, ornate wheel turned slowly. A roulette wheel. A crowd of people gathered around it like a cloud, holding their breath as they followed the path of the silver ball. On the other side, cards slid smoothly across tables covered in green felt. The clack of ivory dice tumbling inside crystal glasses could also be heard.
It was a gambling floor. But it was qualitatively different from the vulgar, noisy gambling dens he knew from the back alleys. Nor did it carry the heavy, solemn atmosphere of the secret clubs where the capital’s gentlemen gathered. It was luxurious. It was dazzling. Yet every unnecessary decoration had been ruthlessly eliminated.
What adorned the walls was not expensive porcelain or statues, but warm-toned wood that added depth to the space and softly glowing magical lights. Everything simultaneously satisfied both function and aesthetics. Restrained opulence.
Jean-Claude barely managed to find a word to define this strange space. He stood there in a daze for a moment, scanning the banquet hall. As expected, the host of this event, that trash Mikhail, was tucked away in a corner. Reclining almost horizontally on a long sofa, he was flirting with some silver-haired girl. So that was the top graduate who had become a bureaucrat? From the way she was acting, she was clearly nothing more than the scoundrel’s new toy.
So she really is just a figurehead. To think she’s letting herself be played with by a vulgar merchant bitch.
Laura Valeriano, on the other hand, was different. She moved gracefully through every corner of the hall, greeting guests, giving instructions to staff, and perfectly controlling the entire vast space. There was no doubt about it. She was the true host. The real power behind this bizarre business, and indeed behind the entire Far East Maritime Province, was that cat woman, Laura Valeriano.
Jean-Claude did not hesitate. He cut through the crowd and walked straight toward her.
“It is an honor to meet you, Chairwoman Valeriano.”
He flashed his most charming smile as he blocked her path.
“I am Jean-Claude von Farenberg, from the capital.”
Laura’s golden eyes turned toward him for a brief moment. There was not the slightest ripple in her gaze.
“A pleasure, Baron Farenberg. You must have had a difficult journey to come all this way.”
Her voice was clear and resonant, yet it carried no personal emotion whatsoever. Her manners were also flawless. As expected of someone from a distinguished republican family, even if it had fallen from grace.
“Not at all. How could I refuse an invitation to such a magnificent place?”
Jean-Claude deliberately looked around with exaggerated admiration.
“Actually, I have something to tell you. My master holds you in the highest regard.”
He did not mention Anastasia’s name directly. This level of hint should have been enough. A clever woman would understand.
But Laura’s expression did not change in the slightest.
“I am grateful for the kind words, but as you can see, I am rather busy at the moment.”
A polite smile lingered on her lips, but her eyes clearly said, So please step aside.
“It will only take a moment.”
“I apologize, but I must attend to the other guests. Please enjoy your time here.”
Laura gave a light bow and brushed past him. In the space she left behind lingered only the faint scent of musk mixed with her expensive perfume.
Jean-Claude stood frozen for a moment, staring at her retreating figure.
A firm rejection.
Well, it wasn’t as if this was the first time she had received such an offer. The Third Prince Dmitri, the Fourth Prince Vladimir, and countless other members of the imperial family must have had their eyes on her. He swallowed a bitter smile. There was no need to rush. There would be plenty of opportunities.
For now, he decided to kill time. His gaze naturally drifted toward the roulette table where the largest crowd had gathered. It was the heart of this bizarre banquet hall. Before he could secure a private meeting with Laura Valeriano, he first needed to understand the atmosphere of this strange event.
As he approached the roulette table, a uniformed staff member approached silently and bowed politely.
“Would you like to participate in roulette, sir?”
The employee’s voice was soft and calm. Jean-Claude nodded and reached into his wallet to pull out a thick wad of banknotes, intending to place them on the table. At that exact moment, the staff member stopped him with a polite but firm gesture.
“I’m sorry, sir, but our casino does not accept cash directly.”
“What?”
“All games can only be played with chips issued by our establishment. You may exchange your money at the cashier’s counter over there.”
Jean-Claude looked in the direction the employee indicated. At a counter set up in one corner, several guests were handing over banknotes. In return, they received small, round objects of various colors. Chips.
I see.
Jean-Claude unconsciously curled the corner of his mouth. Instead of crudely exchanging real cash, they used chips as a substitute currency. It meant more than mere convenience. It was the act of transforming money, soaked in sweat and genuine effort, into mere toy pieces for a game. The moment that happened, the weight of money vanished, leaving only the amusement before their eyes. People would lose their sense of reality and bet far more boldly and recklessly.
Laura Valeriano. What a capable woman.
To think every tiny detail had been calculated so perfectly. She was clearly a talent who could greatly contribute to Her Highness Anastasia’s grand ambitions.
Without hesitation, he headed for the exchange counter.
“Change this into chips.”
The employee who received the thick bundle of notes looked momentarily surprised, but quickly counted the money with practiced hands and handed over the corresponding chips. They were heavy. The texture against his palm was smooth and cold. And on the surface of each chip, numbers had been printed with specially enchanted magical ink that emitted a soft magical glow even in the dim lighting, making them shine on their own. It was truly captivating.
Returning to the roulette table, Jean-Claude first placed a small number of chips on the table. Naturally, he only bet on red or black, odd or even—the options with the highest winning probability. Betting directly on a single number was an idiotic move with far too low odds.
Quiet gasps and sighs from those around him created a strange tension. The dealer spun the roulette wheel.
Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter…
The silver ball began sliding around the wheel like a living thing. A wheel of fate writhing like a living creature. A tiny judge dancing upon it.
Click.
The ball stopped. Red 18. Jean-Claude lost.
“……”
He didn’t mind. It was a small amount. So this time he bet on black.
Clatter-clatter…
Click.
Red 21. He lost again. When he bet on black once more, the result was red 5.
This can’t be.
Jean-Claude kept losing as if in a nightmare. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. His reason was laughing at him. It was money he could afford to lose. It wasn’t even that much. But. But!
His heart was pounding wildly on its own. To keep losing in this Far East Maritime Province, in this rural dump, to slink away like a dog with its tail between its legs and console himself? Unthinkable. His pride as a noble would not allow it.
Jean-Claude swallowed hard. Reason grabbed emotion by the collar and shook it. Just walk away and watch. Enjoy the sight of these fools cheering and screaming over a few coins.
“Betting is now closed.”
The dealer’s emotionless voice pierced his ears. The voice of reason faded into the distance. Now he had to decide. Red or black! Odd or even!
The noise around him grew distant. Only the spinning roulette wheel and the sound of his own heartbeat seemed to remain in the world. His gaze wandered madly across the roulette table. Countless numbers. The hands of other players moving over them. It was pure chaos.
And then it happened.
……!
Among the countless numbers, one number in particular stood out. As if it were emitting light on its own. No, it really was glowing. It wasn’t because of the magic on the chips. On his retina, that single number burned huge and vivid.
2.
The number that symbolized Princess Anastasia. The Empire’s Second Princess. The being Jean-Claude’s soul loved more than anything else. The star in his heart.
Your Highness…
A revelation. This was a revelation. Without a doubt. A ray of light sent down to him, lost in this barbaric land.
Jean-Claude unconsciously drew in a breath. His reason screamed. This was madness! Betting everything on a 1-in-37 chance?
But his body had already slipped beyond reason’s control.
Slide—
His hand moved. He pushed every last chip remaining on the table, without exception, into the small square marked with the number ‘2.’
Quiet gasps of astonishment erupted around him.
“He’s crazy.”
“All that money in one go?”
Every eye turned toward him. But in Jean-Claude’s vision, there was only the spinning roulette wheel and the silver ball racing across it.
Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter…
A sensation as if time had stopped. Every time the ball bounced, his heart plummeted to the floor and then shot back up.
Please. Please!
Click. Click.
The slowing ball teetered precariously between slots as if searching for its final resting place. And then.
Finally.
Thud.
The world stopped.
The silver ball had settled perfectly inside the slot marked ‘2.’
“……”
Silence. All the noise that had filled the banquet hall vanished as if it had never existed. Or at least, that was how it felt. Cheers, screams, and sighs did not reach Jean-Claude’s ears. In that silence, the dealer’s emotionless voice rang out like thunder.
2. BLACK.
The dealer, maintaining an indifferent expression, finished the calculation and swept a mountain of chips toward Jean-Claude. Thirty-six times the amount he had bet.
Jean-Claude simply stared blankly at the towering pile of chips in front of him. This was, in a sense, a promised victory. A reward for his faith. A blessing bestowed by Her Highness.
“Congratulations, sir.”