Baccarat didn't seem to recognize Creed at first glance.
When Rayleigh waved her over, Baccarat knew exactly what he wanted. She had planned to pretend she didn't see him, but with Creed standing beside her, she had no choice but to approach.
"Dear Miss Baccarat, I'd like to borrow another twenty million belly," Rayleigh said, not the least bit embarrassed.
"Honored Mr. Rayleigh, you've already borrowed fifty million belly from our casino. Your credit limit is maxed out…" Baccarat said with a touch of difficulty.
"So the name 'Dark King Rayleigh' is only worth fifty million belly?" Rayleigh bristled.
Creed could only rub his forehead. As expected, the old man was a shameless gambling fiend—though, when he got serious, he did show the bearing of the Pirate King's right hand.
"You misunderstand, Mr. Rayleigh," Baccarat said smoothly. "How about this—I'll personally guarantee you another twenty million."
She had a runner bring over twenty million in chips.
"See that? Chips! Twenty million belly!" Rayleigh crowed, flaunting them at the guy who'd told him to give up his seat.
"Don't get cocky, old man. You'll probably lose again," the man sneered.
Rayleigh laughed. "This time I'm turning the tides! Just you watch!"
Alas, a few dozen spins later, that "flipped" salted fish… was still a salted fish.
"Ahh, money goes and a man knows peace," he muttered, glancing at Baccarat for help. She only gave the smallest shake of her head, and he had to give up.
Creed didn't pull out his wallet either. In Rayleigh's current streak of misfortune, the old man was a black hole—no amount of money would fill it. But that money? Creed could win it back for him.
With the Ope Ope no Mi (Operation-Operation Fruit) and the Rinnegan among other methods at his disposal, winning was trivial—whether or not the house used tricks or hidden mechanisms.
"Sir, here's one thousand belly as a complimentary drink credit. Please make room for the next guest, thank you," the croupier said at last, trading glances with Baccarat before flicking a single chip toward Rayleigh.
"Hmph! Trying to buy me off with a thousand belly? I've lost a hundred million here!" Rayleigh didn't take it.
A hand beside him did—Creed's.
"Mr. Rayleigh, how about I place two spins for you?" Creed smiled.
"So it's you, kid. Didn't expect we'd meet again," Rayleigh said, squinting before he recognized him.
"Which number do you like, Mr. Rayleigh?" Creed asked.
"Eight, this round."
Creed tossed the 1,000-belly chip onto 8.
"No more bets!" the croupier called. The wheel spun, and the ball clicked into slot 8.
"You can do it, kid! I finally won one!" Rayleigh slapped the table in delight.
With 38 slots on the wheel, a straight bet paid 35:1. Creed's single chip turned into 35,000 belly.
"Again on 8," Creed said, pushing all 35,000 onto the same number.
The wheel stopped—8 again. Creed's stack ballooned to 1.225 million.
"Amazing, Creed—you're my lucky star!" Rayleigh's eyes shone. He could see a way out.
The croupier, on the other hand, was sweating. He couldn't tell how Creed kept hitting. He sought Baccarat's eyes; she gave the slightest nod. He swallowed and kept the game moving.
The wheel stopped—8 yet again.
Because the table's single-player cap was one million per spin, Creed's payout was "only" 35 million this time—but the pit erupted. In three spins, he had turned one thousand belly into over thirty-five million. Murmurs swept the crowd.
"Maybe don't bet 8 this time?" Rayleigh clutched the chips, heart pounding.
"What's wrong? Spin it. I'm still on 8," Creed said, ignoring him and sliding another million onto the same square, staring at the croupier whose brow now glistened.
All around, punters began piggybacking the bet, hoping to graze some of that fortune.
When the ball settled, the room roared as one.
Eight. Again.
Creed's rack now stacked past seventy million.
"Last one—another 8," Creed said, unfazed, pushing another million forward.
"I'm in for a million too!"
"Only a fool leaves money on the table—I'm in!"
"Hey, the 8 box is full—move over!"
The crowd was in a frenzy, chips flooding the felt.
"Mr. Creed's luck is incredible," Baccarat cooed as she drifted to his side, leaning in and reaching to link her hand through his arm.
Before she touched him, she jerked back as if shocked—because she had been. A singed, black-yellow mark marred the tip of her finger. Baccarat's face flickered.
Creed was guarding against her.
"Waaah! Eight again!" The cheer rose higher, tugging half the hall's attention to their table.
"That's enough. Mr. Rayleigh, your losses are recovered. We're done," Creed said, stretching as he stood.
"Miss Baccarat, please settle my debt," Rayleigh added. He, too, had noticed Creed's quiet precaution when Baccarat approached. Maybe this table had no mechanisms—but Baccarat certainly did. He might be a degenerate gambler, but he wasn't brainless; best to stop here.
Deep within the "King of Gold" hotel, the central control room was a vast chamber crowded with hundreds of live surveillance feeds.
A tall man with slicked-back greenish hair and a pink suit watched Creed rescue Rayleigh on the monitors—and hurled his champagne to the floor in fury.
He was Gran Tesoro's master—the Golden Emperor, Gild Tesoro.
"That damned Creed, ruining my show!"
His face twisted, eyes flaring.
By plan, Rayleigh's drama was about to reach its climax—until Creed spoiled it. Every famous pirate who stepped into Gran Tesoro got a custom show, a spectacle for the rich to savor. It was Tesoro's post-fame hobby.
Had Creed not shown up today, the headliner would have been the Pirate King's right hand—Rayleigh. Five thousand tickets had already been sold for that performance. Creed's interference had upended it.
Of course, if Creed—already at ten thousand sold tickets—stuck to the "script," Tesoro would hardly call it a failure.
"Boss, Creed's tickets are still surging—another ten thousand just now," a stats man reported breathlessly.
"Creed…" Tesoro narrowed his eyes.
(End of Chapter)
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