Strongest Incubus System

Chapter 279 279: Finally, someone stopped my luck!

Damon rested his elbows on the blackjack table with an almost offensive nonchalance, as if he were in a regular tavern betting small change and not sitting in front of a stack of chips that, at that point, already represented a small fortune. The dealer dealt the cards with the mechanical precision of someone trained not to show emotion, but there was a slight delay in the movements—almost imperceptible—that betrayed the growing discomfort. Damon picked up his cards, analyzed them for less than a second, and simply made a calm gesture with his hand. "I stand." The player next to him drew another card… busted. Another tried to play it safe… lost. Damon turned over his cards. Twenty-one.

The silence didn't come immediately this time—it built up. First a murmur, then another, until, like a tide pulling everything around it, the nearby conversations began to diminish, being replaced by a collective attention that no longer hid itself. Damon calmly stacked his chips, almost organizing them by color and value with unnecessary care, as if he were more interested in aesthetics than the money itself. "I swear…" he murmured, almost to himself, with a slight crooked smile, "this was harder when I got paid to do this."

One of the nobles at the table—a middle-aged man with impeccable clothes and a ring too heavy to be merely decorative—leaned forward with an increasingly less restrained expression, observing Damon as if trying to decipher him piece by piece. "Are you counting cards?" he asked, not exactly accusing, but also not hiding his suspicion. Damon slowly raised his eyes, with an almost offensive calmness, and shrugged. "If I were… do you really think I'd say yes?" The answer came lightly, almost amused—and that, more than anything, only made the situation worse.

He left that table after another clean win, not out of necessity, but out of strategy, and walked to the roulette wheel with the same carefree air of someone who was just "trying out" the games. The operator spun the wheel, the small metal sphere jumping with that characteristic sound that normally generated anticipation… but here, now, it generated tension. Damon watched the spin for two complete cycles, analyzing the operator's pattern, the force applied, the release time. He then placed a considerably larger amount than before—not absurd enough to be impossible, but large enough to make two spectators hold their breath without realizing it.

The ball spun.

Jumped.

Wobbled.

And fell.

Exactly where he had bet.

Damon didn't even celebrate. He just tilted his head slightly, as if confirming a simple calculation, while pulling the return towards him. "Seriously… this is almost offensive," he murmured, running a hand over his face thoughtfully. "Either I'm really good… or you guys are really predictable."

The phrase, though low, was heard.

And it had an effect.

Now, people weren't just watching.

They were reacting.

Another nobleman, younger, clearly irritated, approached with firm steps and practically threw chips on the table next to Damon. "I want to see you repeat that," he said, with a challenging tone. Damon slowly turned his face towards him, assessing him with an almost bored look, and then smiled slightly. "Sure. Want to bet against me… or with me?" The young man hesitated for half a second—enough to lose any psychological advantage—and answered more sharply than he intended. "Against."

"Terrible choice," Damon muttered.

The wheel turned again.

And the result… was the same.

The young nobleman remained in absolute silence for a few seconds, staring at the table as if it were personal, while Damon gathered another considerable stack of chips without even looking directly at him. "You should try something simpler," Damon commented casually, rising with the chips already in his hands. "Maybe dice. Fewer variables."

Now, the domino effect was complete.

The circle around him grew.

Not just curious spectators, but players.

Rich.

Proud.

Competitive.

Some clearly irritated.

Others trying to maintain composure, but failing.

Damon walked between the tables like someone strolling through a garden, but each stop generated a new peak of tension. He played cards, then dice, then returned to the roulette wheel, alternating not out of indecision, but out of mastery—like someone who didn't need to specialize in anything because he already understood everything.

And the money?

It was growing.

Absurdly.

But not explosively.

Controlled.

Even when it seemed excessive, there was a logic behind it, a rhythm, a care not to cross an invisible limit… although that limit was constantly being pushed.

"How much has he earned?" someone whispered in the background.

"Too much," another replied.

"That's not normal…"

"No, it's not."

Damon heard.

Of course he heard.

And smiled.

"Finally…" he thought, stacking more chips while observing the reflection of the surroundings on a nearby polished surface. "Now you're uncomfortable."

An older man, clearly experienced, approached with slower steps, observing Damon with a more analytical than emotional gaze. "You're not here for the money," he said, in a low but firm tone. Damon looked up, meeting his gaze for a brief moment, and then gave a small smile. "Did it take me this long to make this obvious?"

The man didn't answer.

But he understood.

And that… changed everything.

Because now, it wasn't just about winning or losing.

It was about presence.

Influence.

And risk.

Damon returned for one last round of cards in that sequence, this time putting in a considerably larger amount than any before, the kind of bet that made even the most trained employees tense. The croupier hesitated for a microsecond before dealing the cards, and Damon noticed.

"Breathe," he murmured, almost gently. "It'll be alright."

It wasn't.

For the others.

He won again.

And this time—

The silence was total.

There were no more murmurs.

No more comments.

Only stares.

Heavy.

Fixed.

Almost accusatory.

And Damon… simply leaned back in his chair, observing the absurd pile of chips in front of him, like someone finally satisfied with his work.

"Okay…" he said, running a hand over his chin thoughtfully. "Now I think I overdid it a bit."

But the smile that followed—

Said exactly the opposite.

The accumulation of chips before Damon had already surpassed any reasonable notion of luck or coincidence, transforming that absurd winning streak into something almost… offensive to everyone around. The pile in front of him wasn't just large—it was disproportionate, grotesque, a true monument to the momentary collapse of logic in that casino. The most valuable chips, normally seen in small quantities even among wealthy players, now formed layer upon layer, stacked with almost artistic care, reflecting the soft light of the room like small forbidden jewels. Seven thousand. Seven thousand chips of the highest category. Approximately seventy thousand gold coins. And he was still playing.

The most unsettling thing wasn't just the amount.

It was the fact that no one had stopped him yet.

That, for Damon, was far more alarming than any defeat could have been.

While he distractedly twirled one of the chips between his fingers, with that casual air of someone just "passing the time," his mind was already working in parallel, analyzing every little detail around him. The players who had previously taken turns confidently now showed clear signs of irritation, some trying to maintain their composure, others already letting slip more open expressions of frustration. A man to his left, with an ornate mask and rigid posture, had lost three rounds in a row and now gripped his cards with excessive force, as if he could bend his luck by force. Another, further ahead, no longer even tried to hide his fixed gaze on Damon's pile, as if he were watching a perfectly executed robbery without being able to do anything about it.

And yet…

Nothing.

No intervention.

No interruption.

No "house limit."

This wasn't normal.

This wasn't just a casino.

This was a test.

Or worse… a trap being patiently set.

"Okay… this has gone beyond funny," Damon thought, as he pushed another absurd amount of chips onto the blackjack table, completely ignoring the basic logic of preserving winnings that any minimally competent player would follow. He knew exactly what he was doing—every move, every bet, every win wasn't just about money, but about pressure. He was forcing the house to react. Stretching the rope. Provoking.

And the house… still hadn't pulled back.

What, honestly?

It was incredibly worrying.

Around him, the atmosphere had completely changed. What had once been curiosity was now pure tension, condensed in glances, stifled sighs, and low murmurs that coursed through the room like an invisible current. Some people had already stopped playing altogether, preferring to observe, as if the spectacle had become more interesting—or more dangerous—than any bet they could make. Even the employees, always impeccable and discreet, now moved with more evident attention, exchanging glances, communicating without words.

And Damon?

He kept winning.

At roulette, he bet on specific numbers with irritating precision, as if he had some kind of absurd sixth sense or was simply mocking probability. At blackjack, he played aggressively, counting cards so naturally it seemed like pure instinct, manipulating the rhythm of the table, pressuring the dealer, forcing decisions that inevitably led to the same result.

Victory.

Always victory.

"Man… I should have come back to this sooner," he muttered under his breath, almost laughing to himself as he pulled another stack of chips closer, rearranging everything with a calmness that contrasted violently with the emotional chaos around him. "Working in a casino in my past life was the best worst decision I ever made… although that ridiculous salary still irritates me just thinking about it."

One of the nobles finally lost his patience.

"That's impossible," he said, his voice controlled, but clearly on the verge of exploding. "Nobody wins like that. Not consistently."

Damon slowly looked up, tilting his head slightly, as if genuinely curious about the observation.

"Are you insinuating something?" he asked, in a light, almost innocent tone, but with that provocative undertone that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing.

The man froze for a second.

Because he couldn't accuse.

Not there.

Not without proof.

And Damon knew it. Of course he knew.

"It's just… statistically improbable," the nobleman replied, stepping back slightly.

Damon smiled.

"Ah, statistics…" he twirled a chip between his fingers before dropping it on the table. "It loves being ignored at times like this."

Some around laughed.

Others didn't.

But no one could break the rhythm.

And he continued.

More bets.

More wins.

More money.

More tension.

Until—

Change.

This time it wasn't subtle.

Two men appeared beside the table, positioning themselves with almost choreographed precision. Well-dressed, impeccable posture, but with that unmistakable presence of someone who wasn't there to gamble. The energy around them changed immediately, as if the environment itself recognized the silent authority they carried.

Damon didn't even need to look directly to know.

Finally.

"Sir," one of them said, with a slight nod, his voice calm but firm enough to cut through the surrounding murmur. "The owner would like to speak with you."

Silence.

Instantaneous.

Heavy.

The gazes around intensified even more, now laden with something new—expectation. Curiosity. And, in some cases… relief.

Damon raised an eyebrow slowly, resting his elbow on the table as he watched the two with a slight smile that showed neither surprise nor concern.

"Ah… finally," he murmured, almost to himself.

But then, as if remembering something important, his gaze drifted to the absurd mountain of index cards in front of him, and he made a small gesture toward them.

"And what about this?" he asked casually. "I imagine I can't just walk around carrying everything in my pocket."

A brief silence settled in.

And then—

Another man approached.

Unlike the security guards, this one dressed even more elegantly, with a posture that immediately placed him in a superior position within the hierarchy of the place. The manager.

His gaze quickly swept over the files, then over Damon, and then back to the files again, as if mentally confirming the magnitude of the problem they faced.

"Don't worry about it, sir," he said, with a perfectly practiced professional smile. "Your winnings will be duly recorded and stored in our main safe until the end of your stay."

Damon tilted his head slightly, observing him with interest.

"How convenient," he commented.

"We prioritize the security of our clients," the manager replied without hesitation.

"I imagine so."

Damon then slowly rose from his chair, calmly adjusting his posture, as if he were merely changing environments—and not being escorted to a meeting that would most likely define the next steps of all this.

He cast one last glance at the table. For the tokens.

For the nobles.

For the environment.

And then he smiled.

"Well…", he said, running a hand through his hair as he began to follow the security guards. "Let's see what the owner of the place has to say."