SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS - Chapter 1038 - 1038: Fatty-The Fierce gambler!

Next Day Morning…

A giant black portal, shaped like a spiral of chains and bones, had manifested near the Northern edge of the Heavenly Phoenix Range. Its presence was like a beacon—ominous, ancient, and terrifying.

Rumors danced through the streets.

“Did you hear? That portal is the entrance to a hidden Wild Arena.”

“It’s not a test… it’s a massacre.”

“I heard beasts, thousands of them, live inside.”

“Seven Nations Syndicate just leaked a note—the next round will only have 1,000 survivors. From five thousand… to one thousand?! That’s a bloodbath!”

In the Hanging Pleasure Palaces, the remaining-contestants were roused by spirit butterflies carrying the same message.

“Rest well. Prepare for war. The second round begins at sunset.”

Kent King stood by his balcony, staring toward the northern edge of the sky, his eyes half-lidded but calm. Behind him, the faint form of his dragon stirred in his spirit sea, its scales shimmering like thunderclouds.

“Seems like people are rushing to bet against you, Master.” Sparky said in a grim tone.

“Let them bet,” Kent whispered. “Let them watch.”

He stepped into the light, ready for the blood-soaked games to begin.

–

At the Golden Rat Gambling House…

The Phoenix Range was still bathed in the afterglow of the first round’s chaos. Yet, down below, a new storm was brewing—one made not of spells or swords, but of glittering mana crystals and desperate ambition.

The Golden Rat Gambling House, once just another spot among dozens, had now become the eye of the hurricane. After the dramatic end of the first round, it was Fatty Ben’s odds board that captured everyone’s attention. He had announced 1:20 odds for Kent King in the second round—an insane leap from the earlier 1:10 that had already raised eyebrows.

“Make way! Xia Family… Ten thousand on Kent to fail!”

“Thirty thousand mana crystals from the Su family Patriarch! All in! He’s too sly—he’ll lose this time!”

“Haha! Take my life savings! That guy just stood there the whole first round. He’s definitely lucky, not skilled!”

The Golden Rat’s servant girls, dressed in vibrant red qipaos, shouted themselves hoarse trying to keep the flow in order, while Fatty Ben leaned lazily from his elevated platform—still chewing roasted phoenix nuts, completely unbothered.

But not everyone was happy.

From neighboring gambling houses, the rage erupted.

The Blue Bone House, the Twilight Bell Gambling Hall, and the Sunfire Dagger Pavilion all filed official complaints to the Seven Nations Syndicate Headquarters, accusing the Golden Rat House of “manipulating the odds,” “creating dangerous market monopoly,” and “spreading instability.”

One elder, robed in the silver crest of the Syndicate, frowned deeply. “This is going too far,” he muttered.

The elders then sent a summoning call for Fatty Ben.

Soon, ten syndicate soldiers clad in black armor appeared at the entrance of the Golden Rat House. Spectators parted as they marched in formation, their aura chilling the crowd.

“Where is Fatty Ben?” the lead soldier demanded.

Fatty Ben stood up, still munching. “Here I am, my good sirs. What’s the fuss?”

After showing the summoning token, the soldiers escorted Ben to the Syndicate house.

Just as Ben entered inside, the gamblers from the rival houses swarmed in behind the soldiers.

“Who gave you the authority to raise odds like that?” barked one. “1:20? Are you insane?! You’ll bankrupt the whole gambling sector if Kent wins!”

“Are you even liquid enough to handle these losses?” yelled another. “What if Kent clears the second round again? You’ll owe millions!”

“Your odds are too tempting! You’re ruining the balance!” someone else shouted. The elders murmured in agreement.

Fatty Ben blinked. “So that’s your problem? You’re afraid my master will win?” His voice rose, mockingly theatrical.

A burst of laughter erupted from his corner. Fatty raised his chubby hand, snapped his fingers, and with a whoosh, summoned a large spirit bag from his ring.

With a dramatic slam, he threw it onto the table. A thunderous clink echoed. The bag exploded open—revealing rows of high-grade mana crystal bars, neatly stacked, glowing like solidified stars.

“Three million mana crystals,” Fatty declared. “This is my deposit to the Syndicate’s treasury. Call it a cautionary guarantee.”

The soldiers exchanged glances. The crowd went dead silent.

“And let me clarify something,” Fatty continued, his tone now icy and bold. “I’m not doing this for show. I trust my master. He doesn’t need to rush or bark or show off.”

He pointed his finger toward the gambling house owners. “You dogs are barking because you don’t know how wolves hunt. My master waits in silence… and then strikes.”

A few people nodded, recalling Kent’s terrifying moment at the end of the first round when he made Lee kneel without lifting a finger.

Fatty turned toward the complaining gamblers. “If you’re scared, then raise your odds too. Or stay in your holes.”

“You’ll collapse when you lose this bet!” one man growled.

Fatty grinned. “Then let me collapse with glory. But until then—this is my business. I followed every rule. The Syndicate earned 300,000 mana crystals just from my betting table in Round One.”

He paused, letting the figure ring out like a bell.

“Do you want more mana crystals, Elder?” he asked, turning to the syndicate official in charge. “Or are you here to cry with these cowards?”

The elder’s lips twitched.

Silence fell again.

Finally, the silver-robed elder coughed lightly. “The rules of the gambling houses state that odds are at the discretion of the house, provided deposits are made against risky odds. And…”—he looked at the massive deposit—”this is… more than sufficient.”

Fatty smirked, arms spread wide. “Then kindly take your soldiers and leave. Unless you want to place a bet?”

The rival gamblers looked visibly shaken. Some even stepped back.

“Let me warn you all,” Fatty added, raising his voice to the crowd. “From tomorrow, I might raise odds to 1:50. Maybe even 1:100! Depends on how generous I feel.”

Murmurs erupted again. “1:100?!”

“That’s suicide!”

“No… that’s temptation,” whispered an old cultivator with a gleam in his eye.

Fatty chuckled. “What’s life without risk, dear sirs? If you believe Kent Kingl is weak, bet now and become rich. Or… perhaps you’re secretly afraid he’ll win again?”

The elders raised their eye brows. But one thing was clear—the entire gambling scene had tilted.

Fatty turned and walked away. His flag fluttered behind his robes—a golden rat with fangs.

“Let the second round come,” he muttered under his breath. “We’ll feast on their doubts.”