Chapter 128: The Super Fraudster
The underground casino hummed with a strange energy—half tension, half anticipation—as Song Mingjie settled into his chair, the aroma of stir-fried pork and steamed rice wafting from the plates before him. The two hostesses behind him worked their magic, their fingers kneading the knots in his shoulders, while "Defend the Country with Loyalty" blared from the speakers, its lyrics thundering like a battle cry.
*"Smoke rises, looking northward over the land..."*
The song hit different. For the Chinese in the room—dealers, bodyguards, even the bartender lingering by the door—it stirred something primal. An old man in the corner, his back bent with age, nodded along, his eyes glistening. A young dealer, barely out of his teens, clenched his fist, as if the lyrics themselves were armor. This wasn't just music. It was a reminder—of resilience, of a nation that had outlasted empires, that had fought off invaders time and again.
Mei Kanzi watched, his jaw tight. He understood the lyrics—had studied Chinese history, in fact—but he'd never felt their weight like this. It was a deliberate provocation, he realized. Song wasn't just stalling. He was rallying the room against *him*.
"Pathetic," Mei muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.
Song heard him, though. He looked up, grinning around a mouthful of rice. "Something to say, Jap?"
Mei's nostrils flared. "This isn't a concert. It's a casino. Are you here to eat, or to lose?"
"Why not both?" Song laughed, waving a chopstick. "A full stomach makes for sharper moves. You should try it. Might help you stop looking like a starving weasel."
The hostesses snickered. A bodyguard coughed to hide a laugh. Mei's face flushed—whether from anger or embarrassment, no one could tell.
"Bring me a bowl," he said, gritting his teeth. If Song wanted to play games, fine. He'd play.
Song snapped his fingers. "Xiao Qi! Our guest's hungry. Fetch him something *fitting*."
A minute later, a waitress set a bowl of instant noodles in front of Mei—steaming, cheap, the kind sold at gas stations for five yuan. The aroma was cloying, artificial, a stark contrast to the spread before Song.
Mei stared at it. Then he laughed—a cold, sharp sound. "This is your idea of respect?"
"Respect?" Song feigned shock. "We're feeding you, aren't we? Back in Tokyo, I hear you folks eat raw fish. This is *luxury* by comparison."
The room erupted in laughter. Mei's knuckles whitened. He grabbed the bowl, prepared to hurl it at Song's smug face—but then he froze. This was what Song wanted: to goad him into losing control. He set the bowl down, slowly, and smiled. "Clever. But tricks won't save you at the table."
"Who needs saving?" Song said, wiping his mouth. "I'm having fun. Speaking of—" He nodded to the floor, where a drop of noodle broth had spilled from Mei's bowl, staining the polished wood. "Oops. Looks like someone made a mess."
Mei's eyes narrowed. "It's a *drop* of soup."
"*A drop* that ruined a world-class floor," Song said, his tone suddenly grave. He gestured to a burly man in a black suit—Eighth Brother, one of his enforcers. "Xiao Ba, assess the damage."
Eighth Brother stepped forward, kneeling to inspect the stain with exaggerated care. He pulled out a tape measure, muttered to himself, then stood. "Brother Song, this is bad. Real bad. The floor's imported—Italian marble, hand-polished. We can't just clean it. We'll have to replace the whole section. And the labor? The downtime? Easily three million."
"Three million?" Mei sputtered. "For a *stain*?"
Song shook his head, clucking his tongue. "Xiao Ba's being generous. These floors cost four million *euros* to install. A single scratch would set us back. But since you're a guest…" He shrugged. "Three million. Cash. Then we gamble."
Mei stared, disbelieving. This was extortion, plain and simple. But the room had gone quiet, every eye on him—challenging, mocking. If he backed down, he'd look weak. If he paid… he'd be a fool.
"I'll pay," he said, through gritted teeth. "But when I win, I'll take it back. With interest."
Song's grin widened. "Now *that's* the spirit. Xiao Ba, take his money. Then set up the table. Baccarat. Let's see what this Jap's really made of."
As Mei counted out the bills—his hands trembling—Wu Yifan leaned against the wall, amused. Song was a master of this: turning pride into a weapon, making the opponent fight with their ego instead of their wits. Mei was already flustered, his focus frayed. By the time the cards were dealt, he'd be ripe for the taking.
The dealers shuffled, the cards clicking like dice. Song tossed a chip onto the table, grinning. "Let's make it interesting. Winner takes all. Your eight million, my ten million. And that three million? Let's call it a *donation*."
Mei's jaw tightened. He pushed his stack forward. "Deal."
The first hand was a blur. Song won, by a hair. Mei's brow furrowed. The second hand, he doubled down—only to lose again. His breath came faster, his eyes darting to the cards, to Song, to the smirking onlookers.
"Nervous?" Song asked, dealing the third hand.
Mei didn't answer. He stared at his cards: a nine and a five. Seventeen. Not great, but not terrible. He glanced at the dealer's upcard—a six.
"Hit," he said.
The dealer flipped a three. Twenty. Mei's shoulders sagged.
Song smiled, turning over his cards: a ten and a seven. Seventeen. He shook his head. "Stay."
The dealer flipped his hole card: a four. Twenty. A push.
Mei let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Lucky," Song said, but there was a glint in his eye. "One more hand. Winner takes everything."
Mei nodded, his hands clammy. He needed this. Needed to prove he wasn't some fool, some foreigner outmatched in a backwater casino.
The cards were dealt. Mei got a king and a six: sixteen.