Taoist Master, wishing for a sacrifice-based system

Chapter 33: Tendons severed, shackles locked – Congratulations on becoming a machine that never loses money!

Sun Hao's pupils suddenly contracted.

"Brother Tiezhu"

"Leave."

Zhou Tiezhu repeated it.

This time there was no explanation, no foreshadowing.

Only two words.

Like two nails, they were driven into the green velvet surface of the gambling table.

Sun Hao felt the tip of the knife on the back of his neck push forward another half millimeter.

His Adam's apple bobbed.

Then he laughed.

It was the kind of smile unique to venomous snakes—cold, with almost no curve.

"Brother Tiezhu, aren't you afraid of breaking the rules by doing this?"

"Winning and leaving is perfectly reasonable. You set that rule."

Zhou Tiezhu also smiled.

But that smile was colder than Sun Hao's.

"Rules are made for people."

"The way you won is something no human could do."

"so-

—

"not applicable."

He stood up straight.

He raised his chin and gestured around.

Only then did Sun Hao notice—

The other gamblers in the casino had all left at some point.

The twelve gambling tables were completely empty.

Instead, people flocked in from all directions.

Black T-shirt, buzz cut, tattoos, steel pipe, baseball bat.

At least thirty.

They surrounded him completely.

"Brother Tiezhu," Sun Hao's voice finally cracked slightly, "what are you going to do?"

"Don't worry." Zhou Tiezhu turned around, his back to him, and walked towards the door.

He paused when he reached the door.

There was no turning back.

He simply left behind a single sentence.

I won't kill you.

"Killing you would mean we can't win."

"I just want to make sure—"

"In this life, you will only win for me."

Then he left.

The iron gate closed behind him.

"Bang."

A muffled thud.

Like the sound of a coffin lid closing.

What happened next is something Sun Hao is reluctant to recall for many years to come.

Thirty people.

No nonsense.

There was no sense of ceremony.

It's all about fighting.

First came the fists.

Then came the steel pipes.

Then-

Sun Hao was forced onto the gambling table by four people.

Face down.

One hand was held down tightly, palm facing upwards.

He struggled.

It struggled desperately.

But putting 200 pounds of force on a 130-pound body is like an elephant stepping on an ant.

A man wearing black gloves walked over.

He held a small, sharp, curved knife that gleamed coldly under the light.

Sun Hao's pupils dilated to their maximum size in that instant.

"No-

'

"Sizzle."

A very faint sound.

It looked like fabric had been torn.

But it's not fabric.

It's the skin on the inside of your wrist.

A precise, shallow wound, but enough to sever the tendons in the hand.

Right hand.

Then the left hand.

Then the Achilles tendon in the right foot.

Then the left foot.

Four cuts.

Clean. Neat. Professional.

It's like a standardized procedure that's been performed countless times.

Sun Hao's screams were muffled by a towel stuffed into his mouth.

It sounded muffled, and I couldn't hear it clearly.

But that kind of pain is a pain that seeps out from between the bones, a pain that makes you wish you could chop off your own hands and feet.

After the four tendons were severed.

Sun Hao's fingers can still move.

But I'm out of strength.

It will never be powerful again.

He could still feel the temperature of the ground under his feet.

But he couldn't stand up.

He will never be able to stand up again.

He collapsed at the gambling table, blood slowly seeping from four wounds, staining the scattered playing cards on the green velvet tabletop.

A spade Ace.

It was stained with blood.

Under the light, it reflected an eerie, dark red glow.

three days later.

Yunzhou City, underground in the old city area.

Deep inside the "Golden Cage" casino, past two locked iron gates and through a damp corridor lit only by emergency lights, lies a basement of less than ten square meters.

Cement walls. Cement floor. No windows.

Several old water pipes were exposed on the ceiling, occasionally dripping a drop or two of water, which hit the water stains on the floor and made a hollow "tap" sound.

In the very center of the room, there was an iron table.

There was a laptop on the table.

On the screen, the interface of an online virtual gambling platform is running.

The visuals are vibrant—golden chip icons, a bright green table, and constantly changing numbers.

It created an absurd contrast with the surrounding dark and damp environment.

In front of the iron table was an iron chair welded to the ground.

A person is sitting in the chair.

Sun Hao.

His hands were resting on the table.

The fingers can still move, but only weakly, slowly, and like twitching.

Both wrists were wrapped in thick bandages, beneath which were scabbed wounds.

Even after a tendon is severed, the fingers are not completely immobile.

I can no longer hold onto anything.

I can no longer rely on clever tricks.

The cards can never be shuffled again.

But you can still do it by clicking the mouse.

Zhou Tiezhu is very shrewd.

He did not cripple Sun Hao's fingers.

He only lost the tendons in his hands.

The minimum functionality of clicking the mouse is retained.

Because he needs Sun Hao's fingers to be able to move.

You can click "Place Bet".

You can click "Add Bet".

You can choose to "bet all".

Sun Hao's feet were also on the ground.

However, each of his ankles was bound with an iron chain.

The other end of the chain was welded to the wall.

The chain was just long enough for him to walk from the iron chair to a plastic bucket in the corner.

That was his toilet.

He can't leave.

Even after his Achilles tendon ruptured, he was still able to stand and move.

But we can't leave.

Not to mention running away.

Every morning at eight o'clock.

A thug would push open the iron gate and bring in three things:

A boxed lunch.

A bottle of mineral water.

A note.

The note listed today's "task objectives".

For example, today's note reads—

Texas Hold'em, minimum win of 80. Baccarat, minimum win of 50. Slots, minimum win of 30. Today's total KPI: 160

Ten thousand."

KPI.

When Sun Hao first saw this word, he almost choked on his own saliva.

He is a professional gambler who has been gambling for twenty years.

He had seen the darkest parts of the casino.

But he had never seen anyone set KPIs for gamblers.

However, he soon discovered that this KPI was not a problem for him.

Because he always wins at gambling.

Whether it's Texas Hold'em, Baccarat, Blackjack, or those slot machines and roulette games that rely purely on probability, he places his bets.

He won.

Place a bet.

win.

Place another bet.

Win again.

There was no suspense. No twists or turns. No excitement.

It's like a machine that's turned on and starts running automatically.

buzzing.

It's so boring it makes me want to die.

He sat in that welded-on iron chair, mechanically clicking the mouse with his two hands, which had severed tendons.

point.

win.

point.

win.

point.

win.

The numbers on the screen kept soaring upwards.

But that number had nothing to do with him.

Because the bank card linked to the virtual gambling platform does not belong to him.

It belongs to Zhou Tiezhu.

Every penny he won automatically went into Zhou Tiezhu's account.

He's just an ATM.

A human-shaped ATM locked in the basement, operating according to daily KPIs.

He always wins when he gambles.

Never lose.

God of Gamblers.

A literal, perfect, word-for-word God of Gamblers.

However, this gambling god's hands are useless.

Both feet are disabled.

He was chained up.

There was only a computer and a concrete wall in front of me.

They ate boxed lunches.

They were drinking mineral water.

The stool was in a plastic bucket.

He never lost a single penny again.

Because the money he won wasn't his.

The concept of winning or losing no longer exists for someone who doesn't even have the freedom to bet.