The gambling room gave off this smooth, polished vibe, like everything was meant to sparkle just enough to remind you how much money was in the air.
Golden edges lined the walls, the tables gleamed under soft, flattering lights, and the air smelled faintly of perfume, expensive liquor, and the kind of wood polish only found in places that never cut corners.
Laughter drifted through the room in waves, sometimes loud and sharp, sometimes soft and low, mixing with the constant murmur of conversation.
People floated between the tables, sharp in their tailored suits and sleek dresses that shimmered when they moved.
Some leaned in close to whisper, others threw their heads back in laughter, but they all carried that air of people used to money, or at least pretending they were.
The soft click of chips, the smooth shuffle of cards, the faint ring of the slot machines — all of it blended into a rhythm that filled every corner.
At one of the blackjack tables, Seven Silverhare sat comfortably among the players.
His black hair was carefully combed back, not a strand out of place, and his black eyes flicked lazily between the cards and the people.
His mouth curved in that usual shape of his — not quite a smirk, not quite a grin, just a look that said he was always a little ahead of the game.
Seven wore a black suit, sharp and well-fitted, but he didn't carry that stiff, careful posture some of the others had.
He sat back a little, one arm resting casually on the edge of the table, eyes sliding over the players around him.
One guy kept tapping his fingers against his glass, another shifted in his seat every few seconds, a woman chewed lightly on the corner of her lip as she stared at her cards.
Small details, little cracks showing through their polished exteriors.
Seven's smirk deepened, just a touch, as if all of it — the nerves, the tension, the desperate little tells — was something he found quietly amusing.
Unlike the others crowding the table, Seven wasn't losing a single cent. He'd already won twice, the wins stacked neatly and cleanly, drawing a few glances but nothing that stuck.
At the age of twenty-one, Seven had the game locked down. He counted cards with the kind of smooth precision that slipped right under the radar, weaving through each round without showing a trace of effort.
He was sitting at the table like he belonged there, like the years behind him didn't matter because he already knew how to handle the game better than most of the older faces watching the cards fall.
His eyes followed the deck, the flow of hands, the way the dealer moved — every small detail folded neatly into the edges of his mind.
He knew when to bet, when to hold back, and when to push just hard enough to pull in a win.
But Seven also knew something the loud, clumsy cheaters never understood.
It wasn't about raking in every chip on the table. It wasn't about sitting there with a pile of winnings so obvious the house had no choice but to shut you out.
Winning too much wasn't winning at all — not when it meant walking out banned, marked, and shut off from the places where the real money waited.
So after his two smooth wins, Seven made his next move. He let himself lose two rounds. On purpose. Not a slip, not an accident — losses he handed over by choice.
He watched his pile shrink just a little, the balance shift just enough to look natural.
He'd already secured his big win; now he was just shaping the story around it, making sure the house saw a player who could lose, not a threat they needed to shut out.
Seven stretched his arms lazily, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.
"Ah, guess the streak's over. Figures, right?"
The dealer offered a smooth, practiced grin, the kind given a hundred times a night.
"Maybe tomorrow swings your way, sir."
Seven gave a small, casual wave, his voice light.
"Yeah, I'll be back. Just need to reload the wallet first."
As he turned, his eyes flicked toward the CCTV in the corner. Quick glance, nothing held too long. The camera swept across the room in its slow, lazy arc — no sudden pauses, no sharp zoom-in, no hint of extra attention.
A quiet satisfaction curled inside him. They weren't watching. No alarms, no suspicion. To them, he was just another young gambler calling it a night, walking off to chase more cash. And that was exactly the picture he wanted to leave behind.
Seven stepped up to the counter, handing over the small stack of chips with an easy flick of his fingers.
The exchange was smooth, practiced — a quick count, a quiet nod, and the money was slid into his hand without a second glance.
No raised brows, no curious stares. He walked out the place just like any other winner calling it a night, blending into the casual flow of people slipping past the doors.
Outside, Seven paused under the dim glow of a streetlight. He held the thick bar of cash in both hands, lifting it slightly as a grin stretched across his face.
He brought it closer, breathing in the faint, papery scent, the kind only fresh money carried. His eyes half-closed, smile lingering, like the smell itself was its own kind of reward.
This — this was how Seven's life rolled. No office, no nine-to-five grind, no clock to punch. He didn't have a normal job, never wanted one, never planned on squeezing into the shape the world liked to push people into.
His days were his own, lazy and light, and when night rolled in, the tables lit up for him, the games waiting, the cards calling.
He was good at it. Good enough that what started as a thrill had turned into a living, smooth and steady.
A life that paid, a life that fit, a life he carved out on his own terms. For Seven, this wasn't just luck — it was craft, rhythm, knowing exactly where to stand and when to pull the strings. And tonight? Another night well played.
Seven strolled through the alley that led back to his apartment, hands swinging a little, mood light. The ground was cracked here and there, a couple streetlights buzzing softly, throwing weak patches of light that barely held up.
"Maybe I should grab those new games. GTA 7's coming out soon. Can't wait to sit back and play it for hours."
He grinned to himself, already imagining the controller in his hands, the screen lighting up his room, snacks on the side — yeah, that sounded perfect.
[Seven Silverhare, you are chosen to participate in The Dungeon.]
The voice hit inside his head, cold and flat, like someone just dropped the words straight into his brain without knocking first.
Seven stopped short, head snapping around as he looked up and down the alley. Empty. No footsteps, no faces, just the same old alley, still and quiet.
"What the hell was that?"
[You will soon be sent to the world of Eteria, right into Fortiniro, the city known for The Dungeon.]
Seven blinked, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.
"Am I high? I don't even remember lighting anything up today."
[Wait… something's not right.]
[Something's off. System can't proceed.]
[A divine force is pushing through, breaking into the system…]
[Trying to track the interference…]
[Something's wrong…]
[Someth—]
"I've got to be tripping right now."
[Well, aren't you just perfect…]
A smooth, almost playful female voice slipped into his head, wrapping around his thoughts like silk.
[You're even better than I imagined, little champion. Those stuck-up gods who thought they could cut me out of their precious game… they'll regret ever crossing me.]
"Who the hell even are you supposed to be?"
[I'm Faustina, goddess of Luck. And you? You're about to become my piece on the board — the one who'll crack open The Dungeon those fools hold so dear. That's my payback for being left out.]
Seven let out a shaky laugh, his voice slipping out under his breath.
"I don't even know what the hell is going on anymore."
[You have received a skill.]
[Passive Skill: Sovereign of Fortune — Everything around the User bends in their favor, as countless unseen chains of luck and consequence twist the world itself to serve their advantage, making reality ripple and shift so that even the smallest events end up steering outcomes toward the User's benefit, whether they realize it or not.]
"The hell? Even I can tell this skill's ridiculous. This is way too overpowered."
[Of course it is. I didn't pick you to play fair. I want you to crush The Dungeon the other gods worship like it's untouchable. You have the strength now — take it.]
Seven furrowed his brows, lips pressing into a thin line.
"If you're dumping some god-crushing mission on me — handing me cheat-level power and telling me to wreck what they treasure most — the least you can do is show up. Let me see who's pulling the strings."
[I will… when the time is right.]
Light burst around Seven, swallowing him whole before he could even react. It wrapped tight, pulling him through without warning, without choice, like the world itself had decided he was done here.
His chest tightened as the ground slipped away, no time to fight it, no time to even shout.
Inside his head, the voice returned — that same flat, mechanical tone, rolling on like this was just another day, like nothing unusual was happening at all.
[Welcome to the world of Eteria. Step into The Dungeon, plunge as deep as you dare, and rise as the legend none will forget.]
Seven's heart hammered, his breath caught somewhere between a curse and a laugh as the world around him blurred and twisted, dragging him into a place he hadn't agreed to but was already bound to face.