Hard to pay attention during this shit job. They told me to just stand around and watch gangsters, gamblers, and delinquents actually get to have fun. ‘Luca, keep your head straight, look tough,’ All on the off-hand chance some idiot might choose to cause a problem over a lost bet. Unfair. The itch of people gambling around me and not being able to join physically hurt. Like a constant stab in my side.

A delinquent with a greased-up pompadour took center stage and spread his arms wide. Talk about awful hair, there's a delicate balance to take when styling yourself. This guy decided to say fuck that, and throw as much grease into that he could. His teeth were unnaturally bright from the reflected neon light decorating this gambling den.

That wide smile hiding the scumbag that was underneath, we all were, hell anyone in this place had a decent chance of being one too. The man swayed in place, standing above the crowd on a little wooden podium. He was in charge of the main event of the night. “Place your bets! C’mon, don’t got all night!” Men and women rushed around like a pack of rabid animals. Spirit chips burned holes in their pockets.

Damn it. I ground my teeth, then decided to participate anyway. I strode away from my position against the wall, and joined the rest of the animals, digging out the last fifty spirit chips to my name. Didn’t take long until it was my turn. “All on number seven,” I gave a wink to the other Brass King.

That was enough chips for a couple of weeks of groceries. If you stretched it. Hell, Ma might’ve killed me if she knew how much I’d squirreled away. Especially knowing that I just put it all on the line, betting on an immortals-damned rat. Gambling was an itch, and I needed to scratch it. Or, I’d blow my brains out.

Besides. This game in particular was fun. After he took my bet—squinting a bit and judging me for taking a break from my job—I moved over to the main event, fishing out a cigarette, and lighting it.

The game took place in a circular wooden construct that dominated this part of the gambling den. The rest of the den was stuffed to the brim with crap tables, card tables, and even a poker lounge. But this. This was the real beauty, the type of thing that made me love this stupid gang. Thirty holes were divided evenly around the center of the miniature wooden arena, each little slot given its own color and number. In the middle was a wooden box, where three rats hid away. Rat roulette.

When the time came a man would lift the box, whatever hole the rats scurried into were the numbers that won. People got fucking ecstatic about rat roulette. Ironically nothing brought out the inner animals of gamblers than betting on animals. They already swarmed around, just like me. Itching to see if the demon of fate would spurn or bless. Wanting that win. That sweet thrill.

It’s why we came here, to chase that wonderful feeling.

Well, it’s why they were. I should’ve been up against a wall on guard duty, but screw that

I checked the time on my phone, a bit nervous that if this guy took much longer, someone in my squad would stroll by and notice I’d abandoned my post.

As I fought the thrum of adrenaline, I took in the rest of the risk addicts around me. There were some other Brass Kings mingling around, wearing our black and brass jackets. Even if there were a few others also from the Fourth Division, nobody in my squad. Let them judge me, I didn’t care. A scrawny kid with long black hair shot his eyes away from mine as our gazes crossed. Little twerp had a Seventh Division patch on his jacket.

The garbage division, the most useless in the whole Brass Kings. Didn’t care what that scrawny runt thought. I snorted as he kept looking away. Puffing up my chest, and taking a deep drag of that sweet nicotine. My right hand rested on my cheek as I shifted focus to the game. I needed the money, bad.

“Right, right! All bets in! Winners meet with the bookie, and he’ll sort ya out after. The next round will be in half an hour!” A big dude from the First Division came over, his hands tucked away in his pockets, beady eyes locked on the box. Pure silence as the tension bubbled over. Now or never.

A jolt sparked from my index finger, tiny. Localized. Jumping from the tip of my finger and instantly numbing my cheek as I called upon my Soul Ability. Fickle Fate wasn’t as flashy as some other Soul Abilities got. But cultivating my Soul Seed this far had been the culmination of my year-long effort in this damn gang.

At first, using it screwed me over just as much as it helped. Whenever I triggered it, my Soul ability either boosted my luck or caused misfortune. As I progressed my cultivation, I gained a small bit of sway on which way the dice fell; Press some will into it, make a suggestion, and it went my way a little more often than not. But still, using it was always a gamble.

Wouldn’t have it any other way. Made it exciting. That was the best part, all I needed to do to cultivate it further was chase the thrill.

The barest flash of blue caught the corner of my eye. A grin took over my face. Hell yes. Fickle Fate had my back. I did the barest scan for any Brass Kings watching over the gang. Nobody looking in my direction, except for that pipsqueak from the Seventh Division. His face twisted as if he saw it. I raised an eyebrow, throwing him an invitation, a dare to come over and say something. The meek bastard caved and looked away.

If he chose not to bite then why should I worry? I’d rather think about how I’d spend the chips I’d win.

The First Division guy in charge stretched his arm forward—it kept expanding past the natural limit. Stretching a good six feet to reach the center box on the rat roulette table and grabbed the top. I whistled. A useful ability for a fight. Hell, bet the guy could throw a cheap shot from ten feet away.

Soul Seeds were particular. Not everybody was born with one. Only some got the chance to develop one later in life. They might manifest from an intense moment of strife. Though, rumor was that the Schäfer organization figured out a method for artificial implantation. If you were rich enough. Fat chance of that for any of the degenerates around here.

Each Soul Seed embodied a particular concept of dao. Though, that mumbo-jumbo-bullshit bored me. To grow your Soul Seed—like a normal plant, it needed the right ‘water’. Different Soul Seeds required different nourishment. Guy with stretchy arms? His cultivation probably had something to do with flexibility.

Fickle Fate? Real simple. Gambling, in a constant upping of stakes. Each time it paid out and brought me further down that path.

The box lifted; the rats scrambled free. Their terrified eyes took in the gambling demons crowding the roulette table. Shouts erupted from the crowd as impatient assholes tried to will the creatures into their particular hole. As the biggest attraction, I‘d guess somewhere near ten-thousand spirit chips rode on this game. Enough for a year of rent. My family never had that much at one time, ever.

Hell of a weight to be on the back of a couple of rats. One of them darted right into number seven. Like I knew it would. Thank you, Fickle Fate!