Chapter 130: The Crazy Gambling Game
The underground casino of Soulful Nightclub erupted in a frenzy. Screams, gasps, and the clatter of chairs filled the air as gamblers and security guards pressed closer, craning their necks to witness the spectacle unfolding. This wasn't just a game anymore—it was a showdown, one that would be whispered about in Beitian's backrooms for years.
Wu Yifan sat stone-faced at the table, his fingers drumming slowly against the edge. Five consecutive wins against Mei Kan Kyouko had turned the tide of the room, but he didn't let it show. No smirks, no boasts—just the steady gaze of a man who knew the game was far from over. To the onlookers, he might as well have been a statue, calm amid the chaos.
Mei, though, was unraveling. His face flushed crimson, veins bulging in his forehead as he stared at the dwindling stack of cash before him—once eight million, now a measly three. He'd come to Beitian to prove Japanese superiority, to crush these "amateur" Chinese gamblers. Instead, he was being humiliated by a kid in a leather jacket.
"This isn't luck," Mei snarled, slamming a fist on the table. The mahjong tiles rattled. "You're cheating."
Wu Yifan raised an eyebrow. "Cheating? With a hundred eyes watching? Bold claim, for someone who's lost five rounds straight."
The crowd laughed, low and mocking. Mei's jaw tightened. He'd never felt so small, so *powerless*. But he wasn't done. Not yet.
"Raise the stakes," he said, his voice cold. "Three million per round. Prove it's not luck."
Wu Yifan leaned back, feigning boredom. "Three million? That's chump change. Let's finish this. All in."
Mei froze. "All in?"
"Everything," Wu Yifan said, nodding at Mei's remaining cash and the two bank cards he'd slammed down earlier. "Your 18 million. Against ours. Winner takes it all."
A collective gasp swept the room. 18 million? In Beitian, a city where most people scraped by on a few thousand a month, this was a fortune—enough to buy a mansion, a fleet of cars, a life of luxury. To bet it on a single round of mahjong? It was madness.
Song Mingjie, who'd been bouncing on his toes like an excited child, whooped. "Hell yeah! Let's do it! Xiao Wu, you've got this!" He waved at his men, who hurried to stack their own cash—10 million, plus the 8 million Wu Yifan had already won—into a mountain beside the table.
Mei's eyes flickered. 18 million was nearly his entire savings. But pride blinded him. He'd come this far; backing down now would mean returning to Japan a laughingstock. "Fine," he said, his voice trembling. "But let's make it *interesting*."
Wu Yifan tilted his head. "Interesting how?"
"Loser doesn't just lose the money," Mei said, a sinister smile spreading. "They strip naked. Run five laps around Beitian's main square. And carve these words into their skin: 'Chinese are the inferior race of East Asia.'" He paused, leaning in. "Or, if I lose… I'll do the same. Replace 'Chinese' with 'Japanese.'"
The room went dead silent.
Gasps turned to fury. An elderly man in the corner, his face purple with rage, clutched his chest. "That's侮辱 (wǔrǔ, insult)! You can't—"
"Can't I?" Mei sneered. "Or are you too scared to play?"
Wu Yifan's fingers curled into fists. He'd expected arrogance, but this? It was a slap in the face to every Chinese person in the room, a echo of the slurs that had haunted their history. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Deal," he said, his voice low.
Song grabbed his arm, panic in his eyes. "Brother Wu, you can't—"
"I can," Wu Yifan said, shaking him off. "He wants to play? Let's play."
The dealer shuffled the tiles, her hands trembling. This time, there was no chatter, no laughter—just the ragged breathing of onlookers and the click of ivory against wood.
Wu Yifan drew his first hand.
His face paled.
The tiles were garbage—scattered winds, mismatched numbers, not a single pair. No potential for a winning hand, not even a lowly "chicken hand." Beside him, Song's smile faded. The two middle-aged men he'd roped into playing exchanged horrified glances.
Mei noticed. His grin stretched wider. "Trouble, Chinese boy?"
Wu Yifan said nothing, just stared at his tiles, his shoulders slumping. Sweat beaded on his forehead; he fumbled for a handkerchief, his hands shaking so hard he dropped it. "I… I can still win," he mumbled, but it sounded weak, even to his own ears.
Mei laughed, loud and cruel. "You call that a hand? I've seen better in my grandmother's trash can." He flipped over his own tiles—a near-perfect set, just one tile away from a "Full Flush."
The crowd groaned. Some looked away, unable to watch the impending disaster. The elderly man whispered a prayer.
Wu Yifan closed his eyes, silently commanding the enhancer. *"Skill Precision, max. Show me the path."*
*"Enhancement active. Consumes 1 remaining unit. Precision x5."*
A jolt of clarity hit him. Suddenly, he saw it—the pattern in the shuffle, the tiles Mei was chasing, the one card that could turn his garbage into gold. He just needed to draw it.
The game began.
Mei discarded a tile, smirking. "Your turn, loser."
Wu Yifan drew. A "Red Dragon." Useless. He discarded it, his hand still shaking.
Round after round, Mei inched closer to his Full Flush. Wu Yifan's hand remained a mess—until, on his fifth draw, his fingers closed around a "White Dragon."
A pair.
Hope flickered. He discarded a "South Wind."
Mei drew, cursed, and threw away a "Bamboo 3."
Wu Yifan drew again.
A "Green Dragon."
Three dragons. *That's a hand.*
He fought to keep his face neutral, but his heart raced. One more tile—a "East Wind," to complete the set of winds—and he'd win.
Mei drew, his eyes.