Unknownfate
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Chapter 78
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 03:43:02 +0000 UTCThe glass doors parted before us, and we stepped into another world.
Cool air washed over my skin like a balm—scented with cologne, expensive alcohol, and the faintest trace of ambition.
The lighting was low but dazzling, gold and crimson everywhere. The marble floor gleamed beneath our feet, and the chandeliers overhead sparkled like constellations brought down to earth.
Slot machines rang in the distance. Chips clinked. Laughter rose from crowded tables.
This wasn’t some low-end casino; it was classy and expensive-looking. Yet even so, the moment we stepped through the doors, we gathered attention.
People noticed.
They always did.
But here, it wasn’t just the usual polite glances or passing curiosity. No—this was the pause of conversation. The hitch in breath. The slowing of a dealer’s hand mid-shuffle.
We hadn’t made a sound. We didn’t need to.
Mordred strutted in with all the confidence of someone who thought they owned the place—and might not be wrong. Her outfit didn’t help. That red jacket, the barely-there shorts, the sports bra showing off her abs, the way her boots thudded against the floor like she dared anyone to comment on her—she looked like a punk rocker who had just won a war.
And me?
I looked like her handler. Or maybe her boss. My tailored black suit was crisp as a razor, cut to perfection, with just enough flare in the gold cufflinks and slim tie to say old money. My posture said authority. My expression said I didn’t have time for nonsense.
Together?
We looked like trouble.
The kind of trouble that people wanted, people sought our kind of trouble.
We hadn’t made it more than three steps past the entrance when the staff moved—discreet, elegant, well-trained.
Two floor attendants in matching black-and-gold uniforms approached us with practiced poise. One was a tall woman with perfect posture and a professional smile; the other, a well-groomed man in his forties with a silver name tag that read Joseph – Guest Services Manager.
“Good evening,” Joseph said with a courteous bow of his head. His voice was velvet and smooth, the kind designed to soothe egos and defuse tension before it ever had a chance to spark. “Welcome to the Gilded Serpent.”
Mordred blinked. “Is that what this place is called?”
“It is,” he said smoothly. “May I ask if this is your first visit?”
“Yes,” I said. “And we would like to exchange some bills for chips.”
“Of course.” He gestured subtly to a sleek side desk near the wall, where a smartly dressed cashier stood behind crystal glass.
The woman beside him, however, hesitated—her eyes flicking over Mordred.
Her gaze wasn’t rude. Merely cautious. The kind of professional wariness trained into staff who’ve seen one too many celebrity scandals or underage daredevils with fake IDs.
“If I may, miss,” she said gently to Mordred, “do you have identification?”
Mordred blinked, confused. “Huh? For what?”
The woman offered a small, apologetic smile. “You look very young, and we are required to check age for all patrons who wish to gamble. It’s standard policy—no offense intended.”
Mordred opened her mouth—but I stepped in, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder.
Even though Mordred was made to be a clone of me, she wasn’t fully grown; she matched my 15-year-old self, so she indeed wasn’t old enough to gamble, but she was my child, and she clearly wanted some fun, so as her father, I had to help her.
“I see,” I said. “You’ve asked her for identification, yet not me.”
The floor hostess blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Pardon, ma’am?”
“I asked if you’ve requested identification from me,” I repeated, my tone colder now—firm and perfectly enunciated. “Because if your policy is to check all guests who appear young, then I should be next in line.”
The woman opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her eyes flicked over me, taking in the tailored suit, the perfect posture, the expression that left no room for argument.
“No, ma’am,” she said quickly. “You didn’t look—”
“Didn’t look what?” I asked, tilting my head ever so slightly. “Too short? Too flat? Too unruly? Or is it that I simply carry myself differently?”
Beside me, Mordred stood stiff—surprised but silent.
“If this is truly about policy,” I continued, “then apply it equally. But if it’s about appearances, then be honest and call it what it is. You assumed.”
“I—I meant no offense,” the hostess said, her cheeks coloring slightly now. “Truly. I was only doing my job.”
“And I am doing mine,” I said. “The job of a parent is to look after my child, to stand up for them. and I’m asking, is there a problem here?”
Joseph, sensing the shift in the room, stepped in quickly. “Of course not, of course not. No need for any issue. As long as you’re assuming responsibility, my lady, she may enjoy the floor.”
“I do.”
“Then allow me to welcome you both again. We hope the Gilded Serpent treats you well.”
Mordred’s shoulders finally relaxed. Her grin returned.
“Thanks, Father,” she muttered. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
“I most certainly did,” I replied, my voice low. “No one disrespects you for taking after me.”
“Now,” I said, giving Mordred a look, “try not to cause a scene. At least not immediately.”
“No promises,” she whispered, eyes gleaming.
Joseph led us to the exchange counter—a sleek, glass-framed island near the center of the floor, staffed by a sharp-eyed woman in a burgundy vest and dark lipstick.
Everything about the Gilded Serpent was tasteful but expensive, the kind of place where money was but a number.
I pulled a folded stack of bills from the inner pocket of my suit. The lion’s share of our “taxation” from earlier.
“One thousand dollars,” I said simply, sliding the notes across the marble.
The cashier counted quickly but discreetly. No raised eyebrows, no questions. In a place like this, a thousand was likely just a drop in a bucket, but it would be enough.
She tapped a few keys, and a drawer opened with a satisfying mechanical click. She presented a polished tray, lined with stacks of elegant casino chips—deep crimson for hundreds. Ten in total.
“One chip is enough.” I said lightly and pushed the offered chips back. The woman barely raised an eyebrow before she exchanged it for a single black chip with gold edges.
“Your exchange, miss,” she said with a nod. “Good luck tonight.”
I took the chip with a smile and a nod before turning back to Mordred who was practically bouncing on her heels.
“No,” I said before she even asked.
“But—!”
“Later, first I got to multiply this one.” I said, flicking the single chip into the air and catching it as I walked deeper into the den of debauchery.
The chip felt heavier than it should have. Smooth, cool, etched with gold.
One chance. One play.
That was enough.
I approached the blackjack table with the quiet confidence befitting the king of the casino, a tiny part of me wanted to bust out the bunnygirl outfit, which would indeed boost my luck.
But I didn’t need that, not against normal people, they had most had luck D, nowhere near enough to win over my luck A+, not to mention I had Royal card B+.
When it came to card games, I was king.
Three others were already seated: an older man in a pale grey suit with sharp eyes and a sharper jawline; a glamorous woman in a sequined gown sipping something pink; and a young man trying far too hard to look casual as he fiddled with his chips.
All three glanced up as I joined.
Just another player, or so they thought.
I placed my single chip on the felt with quiet precision. The dealer gave me a nod—a professional, emotionless mask—but his fingers hesitated a breath longer than usual before dealing. Maybe he felt it too. The shift.
One card face down. One card face up.
He moved around the table, giving the others their hands. Polite chatter murmured between the players. The woman in sequins gave me a sidelong look, as if trying to place me. The man in grey gave nothing at all.
I flipped my cards as soon as the second one hit the felt.
King of Spades. Ace of Hearts.
Blackjack.
The dealer blinked.
“Natural twenty-one,” he said, sliding a second chip across the felt toward me. His voice didn’t waver, but I caught the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The man in grey raised an eyebrow.
“Beginner’s luck?” he asked, voice dry.
“No,” I said. “Just luck.”
Behind me, there was a sudden dramatic thump of boots and a loud, drawn-out groan.
Mordred.
“Father!” she whined with maximum theatrical flair. “Come on! Just one chip!”
Every head at the table turned.
The man in grey looked between me and her, clearly recalculating his worldview. The young man with the twitchy hands blinked like he’d just seen a ghost.
Even the sequined woman tilted her head. “Father?”
I didn’t flinch. I just nodded towards the dealer, who handed over one thousand chip, and the other returned back to me.
“Go Mo-chan, have some fun, just don’t break anything.”
Mordred grinned and ran off to try her own luck, leaving me behind at the table. The others gave me strange looks, after all, I had been called Father, and I clearly had to be Mordred’s mother, at least that’s how it looked.
I didn’t comment on it, just smiled and declared that I would continue to play.
Another hand. This time, a soft nineteen. I stood. The man in grey pushed his luck, and the dealer busted. Another win. Another chip.
A third hand. A tie. Then a win.
The chips began to pile.
Quiet. Steady. Regal.
The man in grey eyed me now with something colder than curiosity. The woman in sequins had stopped sipping her drink. The young man was clearly trying to see how I did it.
I had joined the table with a single chip, and been adding chips ever since; never once did I lose.
Then—
Thump thump thump thump—
“Faaather!”
Here she came again.
Mordred rounded the corner at full speed, boots stomping and jacket flapping behind her like a cape of irresponsibility.
I didn’t even look up. “Out already?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said, sliding into the chair beside me and draping her arms over the backrest like she owned it.
“That bad?”
“No!” she snapped, then hesitated. “I will win next time, for sure.”
I just shook my head and handed her a small pile of chips, all thousands. “Go get them, make me proud.”
Mordred took her allowance and ran off once more, I didn’t know what she was playing, but given her personality, it could be almost anything.
The dealer cleared his throat. He was still composed—mostly—but his hands had begun to move just a touch faster. Just enough to betray the tension beneath the gloves.
Another hand dealt. Another win.
My chips now sat in three neat stacks beside me, their golden edges glinting in the soft light.
“Forgive me,” said the man in the grey suit, finally breaking his silence. “But… Father?”
His tone was even, polite—but the question hung in the air like smoke.
The sequined woman gave a soft laugh. “I’ve been dying to ask.”
I didn’t look away from the table. “Yes. That’s what she calls me.”
“She seems…” the grey man trailed off.
“Loud?” I offered.
“Energetic,” the woman supplied.
“Very devoted,” the younger man murmured, clearly still mentally unraveling the layers.
“She is my child,” I said simply, meeting the dealer’s eyes as he revealed another hand. The house busted. Again. I added another chip to the pile.
A beat of silence followed, broken only by the quiet clink of plastic on felt.
The grey man gave a faint chuckle. “And here I thought my family reunions were complicated.”
“She has spirit,” I said, lifting a fresh drink from the side tray. “And very little restraint.”
“She seems to adore you,” the woman said, swirling the ice in her glass. “Though I suppose if you were winning my allowance this fast, I’d adore you too.”
“I’m only down two chips,” I heard Mordred call from somewhere across the floor.
“You’re down four!” I called back.
“Okay, maybe four! But one of those was cursed!”
“You’re cursed!” I shouted.
There was laughter now, not just from the table but from nearby ones too. I sipped my drink and leaned back slightly.
The dealer dealt again. His forehead had begun to glisten.
I didn’t miss the way he glanced at the pit boss—just a flick of the eyes, like a man asking whether he was going to be sent to war or retirement.
“Another game?” I asked smoothly.
He nodded.
Cards flew.
More chips added.
More sweat.
The Gilded Serpent had met its king.
