Rian had been observing the Roulette table for several rounds, his pulse quickening with each spin of the wheel. Despite the confidence he had in his newfound math skills, doubts gnawed at the edges of his mind. This was uncharted territory. Sure, he understood the basic mechanics of the game—predict where the ball would land on the spinning wheel—but knowledge and execution were two very different things.
The stakes felt higher than ever. Half of his savings, ₵600, was now in play. Losing it would be a disaster. The thought of leaving the casino with empty pockets made his heart ache preemptively. Still, he pushed the fear aside and focused on the task ahead. "You've got this," he muttered under his breath, willing himself to believe it.
As he approached the table, the atmosphere around it became palpable. A mix of anticipation and tension hung in the air, punctuated by bursts of cheers or groans as the results came in. The table itself was a vivid display, its green felt surface marked with rows of numbers and colored sections—red and black for the main bets, with a solitary green zero at the top. The wheel spun beside it, its gleaming pockets blurring into a hypnotic swirl.
The people around the table were as varied as the games in the casino. A lone man in a sharp suit stood stiffly, clutching a whiskey glass, his jaw tight with concentration. To his right, a group of friends laughed and slapped each other on the back, their carefree demeanor a stark contrast to the tension of the game. A couple stood on the opposite side, the woman whispering something into her partner's ear as he placed a cautious bet. Each player had their own reasons for being here, their own stories and stakes.
At the center of it all was the croupier, a calm and composed man dressed in the casino's sharp black-and-white uniform. His movements were fluid and practiced, his hands deftly spinning the wheel or setting the ball in motion. "Place your bets," he announced in a smooth voice, his words cutting through the low hum of conversation.
Rian's hesitation earlier had allowed him to gather crucial data. The clinking of chips, the low murmurs of players strategizing, and the occasional outburst of triumph or despair provided a backdrop for his calculations. Now, with a sharper understanding of the game's nuances, he felt ready to step in. The croupier's voice came again, this time with an edge of finality: "No more bets."
Each round played out the same. The croupier expertly spun the wheel, his practiced hands flicking the small white ball into motion. It bounced erratically along the rim before losing momentum and clattering into one of the numbered pockets. Rian studied every detail—the force of the spin, the angle of the ball's launch, and the pockets where it most often landed. His observations painted a pattern, a subtle rhythm to the chaos. The wheel spun again, its rhythmic whir filling the room, and Rian leaned in slightly, watching intently. The ball's erratic movement was almost hypnotic, each bounce drawing collective gasps from the players as it ricocheted closer to its resting place.
Rian observed intently, his mind racing as he tried to predict the outcome. The lone man in the sharp suit had placed a hefty bet on black, his expression a mixture of calm determination and underlying tension. Around the table, chips were scattered across various numbers and sections, each representing someone's hope for fortune.
"Come on, come on," the suited man muttered under his breath, his eyes glued to the spinning wheel.
Rian's gaze flicked to the spinning wheel and the bouncing ball. He recalled the principles of probability he had absorbed completely into his mind using his newfound power. Combining those concepts with his observations of the croupier's spin force and the angle of the wheel's rotation, he calculated rapidly. "The ball is losing energy rapidly," he thought. "It should land in one of the mid-to-lower black pockets."
With a soft exhale, he whispered under his breath, "Black 17."
The ball began to lose momentum, its erratic bounces slowing until it clattered into one of the numbered pockets. As the croupier leaned forward to announce the result, Rian whispered under his breath, "Black 17." A moment later, the croupier confirmed, "Black 17," his voice steady.
A cheer erupted from the suited man as he punched the air triumphantly. Chips were pushed toward him in a neat stack by the croupier, while others around the table groaned or shook their heads in disappointment. The man downed the last of his whiskey with a victorious grin, pocketing his winnings with a practiced ease that suggested he'd been here many times before.
Rian felt anxiety as he watched the man's win. The process seemed straightforward, but the stakes were undeniably real. As the croupier reset the table and invited new bets, Rian clenched the bills in his pocket. It was his turn now.
"Place your bets," the croupier announced again, his voice calm but commanding. Rian stepped forward, his heart pounding as he prepared to join the game.
As he approached the table, one of the onlookers, a man with a smirk and a drink in hand, chuckled and said, "Kid, this isn't a child's game." The comment drew a round of laughter from the group nearby, their amusement ringing in Rian's ears.
The lone man in the sharp suit glanced at Rian, his expression unreadable. He muttered under his breath, "Interesting."
Rian ignored the laughter, his jaw tightening as he gritted his teeth. Determined to prove himself, he reached into his pocket, withdrew ₵500, and walked to the nearby exchange counter. The attendant handed him a stack of chips in exchange, their weight solid and unfamiliar in his hands. Returning to the table, he placed his bet with steady hands, the colorful chips standing out against the green felt. His mind raced as he recalled the observations he had made earlier.
"The ball tends to land more often in the third quadrant," he thought, drawing from patterns he'd observed during the previous rounds. "Based on the spin speed and the ball's trajectory, Black 24 has the highest probability." With steady hands, he placed his chips on Black 24, his heart pounding as the other players watched.
The chatter around him quieted slightly as the other players observed his bold move.
The croupier gave a slight nod and spun the wheel with his usual practiced elegance. The ivory ball was launched in the opposite direction, clattering along the rim of the wheel with its erratic rhythm.
Rian's mind kicked into overdrive as he tracked the ball's movement. "The initial velocity is lower this time," he thought, noting the slight difference in spin force from the croupier's hand. "It'll slow down faster. The ball's bouncing pattern suggests it's likely to land near…"
The ball continued its dance, ricocheting off the wheel's edges. Gasps erupted from the crowd as it veered dangerously close to red. Rian's grip on the table tightened, his knuckles white. But the ball made one last bounce, clattering into a pocket.
The croupier leaned forward. "Black 24," he announced.
Rian exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing as adrenaline flooded his system. Chips began sliding across the table toward him, the sound of his first win drawing murmurs from the crowd. The man with the smirk muttered, "Beginner's luck," causing a ripple of laughter to spread among the onlookers.
Without hesitation, Rian gathered his winnings and placed the entire stack—₵1,000—on another number. His eyes burned with focus as he recalculated. "The wheel's rotation is consistent, and the croupier's spin has been slightly stronger this time," he thought, his mind racing. "Black 15 has the highest probability."
As he pushed the chips forward onto Black 15, a woman nearby scoffed. "Greed never ends well," she quipped, earning chuckles from the crowd.
Rian ignored the comments, his jaw tightening as he locked eyes with the croupier. The lone man in the sharp suit leaned back slightly, watching Rian with quiet curiosity.
The croupier spun the wheel again, the rhythmic whir of the spin filling the room. The ball was launched, bouncing erratically as it began its journey. Rian's hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white as he followed every bounce with laser focus.
Gasps erupted as the ball narrowly missed red, teetering on the edge of a pocket. Then, with a final clatter, it landed.
"Black 15," the croupier declared, his voice calm.
The room fell silent for a moment before exploding into a mix of shock and awe. "What are the odds?" someone whispered. "Two wins in a row? That's insane," another muttered.
The man with the smirk shook his head, chuckling. "Still luck," he said, his voice tinged with disbelief.
The lone man gave a small nod, his expression unreadable, and muttered again, "Interesting," this time with a hint of approval.
Without hesitation, Rian gathered his chips and pushed the entire stack—₵2,000—onto another number. His heart pounded as he calculated the odds, every variable racing through his mind. He factored in the croupier's spin force, the wheel's angle, and even the distribution of previous winning numbers. Despite his confidence, he couldn't ignore the lingering doubt: one wrong move and he'd lose everything. Still, he pushed forward, his jaw set with determination. His calculations raced through his mind as he analyzed the croupier's spin force and the wheel's consistency. "The pattern is slightly altered, but Black 8 seems most probable this time," he thought. However, he couldn't shake the slim possibility of the ball veering into an adjacent pocket. It was a gamble, but one he felt confident enough to take.
As he placed the bet, a man standing beside him leaned over with a concerned expression. "Kid, don't push your luck," he said, his voice almost pleading.
Rian simply smiled and nodded politely, brushing off the comment as he focused on the game. The murmurs around the table grew louder, with some chuckling at his boldness and others shaking their heads in disbelief. "He's too lucky," a woman muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing. "No one wins like that unless they know something." Another man whispered, "If he keeps this up, someone's going to call the pit boss soon."
The croupier spun the wheel again, the ball clattering against the rim with erratic force. The tension in the room grew thicker as players leaned forward, their eyes glued to the wheel. Gasps rippled through the crowd as the ball bounced unpredictably before making its final descent. A grizzled man near the back chuckled, "I don't know who this kid is, but he's got guts."
"Black 8," the croupier announced.
The room erupted in a cacophony of shock and disbelief. "Three wins? Is this guy psychic or something?" someone exclaimed. Another person muttered, "If he pulls this off again, I'm calling security to check that wheel."
The man with the smirk groaned, muttering under his breath, "No way this is just luck."
The lone man chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "Now this is getting interesting," he murmured, his tone carrying a trace of amusement.
Rian knew this had to be his last game. His wins had already drawn a growing crowd, and if he continued, he would undoubtedly attract the attention of the casino management. Steeling himself, he gathered his chips, now totaling ₵4,000, and placed them all on another number. His mind worked furiously, recalculating every variable. "The croupier is watching me closely now," he noted, adjusting his prediction. "Black 10 is the best bet."
The crowd around the table had swelled, their collective energy a mixture of anticipation and disbelief. Some leaned in closer, their breaths held as they watched the action unfold. A few pointed at Rian, whispering among themselves, while others shook their heads in a mix of awe and skepticism. Even those who had initially passed by found themselves drawn into the spectacle, their curiosity piqued by the growing tension and the young man at the center of it all. Even those who had been merely passing by stopped to watch. Conversations died down as all eyes focused on Rian's stack of chips.
The croupier, maintaining his professional demeanor, spun the wheel with precision. The ball ricocheted around the rim, its erratic movement drawing gasps and murmurs from the onlookers. Rian's hands rested on the edge of the table, his knuckles white as he tracked the ball's every bounce.
Silence fell as the ball clattered into a pocket and settled.
"Black 10," the croupier declared.
For a moment, the room was utterly still. The man with the smirk, his usual confidence replaced with disbelief, stared wide-eyed at the result. The silence broke with a single comment from a voice in the crowd: "Did we just witness a god in disguise?"
Laughter and exclamations erupted, the tension giving way to a wave of incredulous chatter. "How is this even possible?" someone asked, while another muttered, "If he wins again, I'm bringing a priest to bless this wheel."
Rian allowed himself a small smile, the thrill of his final win coursing through him. But he knew it was time to leave. Without waiting for the noise to settle, he began scooping up his chips with frantic urgency, almost spilling a few in his haste. The sight drew chuckles from the crowd, with one onlooker quipping, "Guess even gods need to get paid." Rian ignored the comment, his face set in determination as he dashed toward the exchange counter.
The lone man in the sharp suit watched Rian's hurried exit and gave a small nod. "Wise choice," he muttered, his tone laced with quiet approval.
Little did Rian know that his day was still getting more interesting...