Hunter was quickly escorted to a relatively quiet corner of the expansive VIP lounge. A high-stakes Texas Hold'em game was currently underway at a private table.
The burly security guard leading Hunter watched the table for a moment. He then stepped forward and murmured something into the ear of one of the players.
Because the guard's back was turned, Hunter's newly acquired [Lip Reading] skill was useless.
However, whatever the guard said caused the middle-aged player—who had been wearing a rather sour, losing expression—to immediately perk up.
The man nodded, exchanged a few parting words with his tablemates, gathered his remaining chips, and quickly vacated his seat.
Hunter was promptly invited to take the empty spot.
"Gentlemen," the dealer announced professionally.
"Mr. Celit had to leave our game unexpectedly. Please welcome a new guest to your table."
Hunter sat down casually. He swept his gaze across his new opponents: three middle-aged white men in expensive tailoring, and a Middle Eastern man wearing a traditional keffiyeh.
He offered a polite, generic nod. The four men barely acknowledged him, offering no welcoming remarks. Hunter didn't care in the slightest.
He looked directly at the dealer. "Let's begin."
"Hold on a minute," one of the white men interrupted, staring critically at Hunter's meager stack of chips.
"The minimum buy-in verification for this specific table is one million dollars."
"This gentleman's chips don't even come close."
The Bellagio issued its highest-denomination chips in $100,000 plaques.
Hunter glanced around the table. The player with the smallest stack had well over a million dollars in front of him. The wealthiest player at the table had nearly four million.
Hunter noticed that the burly security guard who brought him here remained silent, hovering nearby without intervening. It was a clear test.
Hunter simply smiled and shrugged. "What does it matter? If I lose, I'll only be wasting ten or fifteen minutes of your time."
"Who turns down free money?"
He casually picked up a few chips with his left hand, letting them clack together rhythmically. The movement perfectly displayed his wrist.
"Besides, what happens if I start winning?"
The man who had objected frowned, his face darkening. He looked like he was about to call the floor manager to complain.
But before he could, the wealthiest player at the table—the Middle Eastern man—spoke up.
"Let him stay. It's only a million-dollar buy-in. I'm quite sure this gentleman can afford it..."
The Middle Eastern billionaire had clearly spotted the limited-edition Blancpain watch on Hunter's wrist and accurately assessed his net worth.
With the table's "whale" giving his approval, the other three men swallowed their objections and fell silent.
Hunter met the billionaire's gaze, offering a polite, silent nod of acknowledgment.
In truth, Hunter had absolutely no interest in the money itself.
The only reason he was still sitting in this casino was to grind experience points for his newly acquired skills.
Furthermore, he knew that trying to get legitimately rich by simply gambling at a casino was a fool's errand.
He had just given them a tiny glimpse of his capabilities on the main floor, turning ten thousand into three hundred thousand. And what was the result? The casino immediately "invited" him to the shark tank to be isolated.
He calculated that a major, heavily-monitored establishment like the Bellagio would probably only tolerate an unknown, highly-skilled "advantage player" walking away with about a million dollars before taking drastic action.
And even then, they would scrutinize his every breath for cheating.
After all, every dollar he won was a dollar stolen directly from the House's mouth.
If he pushed it too far today, Hunter knew he would likely end up on a global casino blacklist, making it impossible to grind his skills in the future.
"Looks like if I want to play cards going forward, I'll have to stick exclusively to these private, ultra-high-net-worth games."
Thinking this, Hunter looked back at the dealer.
The man who had initially questioned his buy-in spoke again, this time with a hint of challenge. "We're playing Texas Hold'em. You know the rules?"
The entire table looked at him. Hunter gave a nonchalant shrug.
"I don't mind. Whatever you gentlemen prefer."
In his quest to level up his [Gambling] skill, he had played almost every variant of poker, blackjack, and mahjong he could find online.
He understood the foundational rules perfectly.
More importantly, having just pushed his [Gambling] skill to Level 4, his brain was now flooded with advanced statistical models, betting strategies, and psychological tells specific to high-stakes poker.
Besides, he truly didn't care if he lost.
It was just a few hundred thousand dollars. Even if he miraculously managed to lose several million, if it bought him enough experience to push his [Gambling] skill up another two levels, it would be a massive bargain.
Skills became exponentially harder to level up as they progressed. Hunter knew this painfully well; several of his skills were currently hard-stuck at Level 5, requiring absurd amounts of experience to reach the "Max" threshold.
Seeing the new arrival act so carelessly, the other four players felt deeply insulted.
"Arrogant kid," they collectively thought. "We're going to bleed him dry."
Under the hostile glares of the billionaires, the dealer began to shuffle, and the game commenced.
Over an hour later.
Director of Security Walsh stood near the edge of the VIP lounge, his face looking like a thundercloud.
Beside him, Casino Manager Frank was nervously mopping sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He shot Walsh a desperate, panicked look before quietly slipping away to make a phone call.
It was a complete disaster.
This was supposed to be a standard, quiet VIP game designed to slowly drain the Asian youth's "lucky" winnings by pitting him against actual billionaires.
Instead, the ecosystem had completely collapsed.
When Frank had been summoned back to the surveillance room a few minutes ago, he was horrified to learn the state of the table.
Except for the Asian youth they had practically forced into the game, the other four players were having an utterly miserable time.
The men at that table weren't just random tourists. They were verified, high-net-worth individuals, each worth tens of millions.
The Middle Eastern player, in particular, was allegedly a minor royal from a gulf state. He was a genuine whale, easily worth hundreds of millions.
Frank had been explicitly ordered by his boss, Terry Benedict, to ensure these potential VIPs were kept happy so they could be properly fleeced over the long term.
But in the short span of ninety minutes, the Asian youth had completely dismantled them.
Not only had Hunter won almost all the chips on the table, but his aggressive, flawless playstyle had so deeply infuriated two of the white billionaires that they had each angrily bought in for an additional million dollars... and promptly lost that, too.
Frank did the math. In under two hours, the Asian youth had taken the table for over six million dollars.
Granted, almost all of that money belonged to the other players, not the casino itself. The House had only lost the initial three hundred thousand Hunter brought up from the main floor.
But the real damage was to the Bellagio's reputation. Allowing their most prized, pampered VIPs to be violently sheared by a random walk-in was terrible for business.
The worst part? Frank had triple-checked with surveillance, the eye-in-the-sky techs, and the floor spotters.
Hunter Sun was not cheating.
As the Casino Manager, Frank immediately realized this situation had escalated far beyond his pay grade.
Their boss, Terry Benedict, was a ruthless micromanager with an absolute need for control. He hated surprises more than he hated losing money.
Frank practically sprinted through the opulent hallways of the resort.
He knew Benedict's schedule down to the minute. Every evening at exactly 7:00 PM, Benedict left his executive office to meet his girlfriend—the curator of the Bellagio's art gallery —for dinner.
Frank managed to intercept his boss just as he was stepping out of his private elevator.
"Mr. Benedict... we have a situation on the floor."
That single sentence was enough to make the perpetually cold, emotionless face of Terry Benedict darken with a terrifying, icy rage.
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