Cat 113: Big or Small
by CristaeChapter 113 Big or Small
Yan Jiyun spent 21 minutes clearing the Rat Door.
The dealer asked him, “Would you like to enter the next Zodiac door immediately?”
Yan Jiyun, full of questions, replied, “What kind of game is behind each door?”
The game behind the Rat Door wasn’t much about gambling—it fit more with the championship theme.
The dealer said, “I’m sorry, sir, I only oversee the Rat Door. I don’t know what the other doors have.”
Thinking for a moment, the memory of “Orange” flashed through Yan Jiyun’s mind. “I’ll choose the Tiger Door,” he said.
The dealer said, “Very well. Please close your eyes. Count to three, and when you open them you’ll find yourself inside the Tiger Door.”
Yan Jiyun shut his eyes, silently counted to three, and when he opened them again, he was inside the Tiger Door.
The Rat Door had held rat-themed games. He guessed the Tiger Door might feature slot machines.
If it was slot machines, that would be too easy. Of course, simple games didn’t guarantee a win.
Counting silently—three, two, one—Yan Jiyun opened his eyes. Before him was a lavish, glittering, traditional casino.
This was a real casino, not just a single game.
He had developed the habit of first surveying the environment whenever entering a new place, so he could escape quickly if needed.
The Tiger Door’s hall was packed with people; it was impossible to tell who was a player and who was an NPC. Bunny-eared waitresses moved among the tables with drinks.
Everywhere he looked were gaming tables and gambling machines.
Yan Jiyun was dressed as he had been for the Rat Door, which still made him stand out—not for his outfit, but because he was the only new player to walk in.
Hands in his pockets, he stood for a few seconds before an NPC, beaming with a professional smile, approached. “Good evening, sir. I’m the manager here. What kind of game would you like to play?”
“What options do you have?” Yan Jiyun asked.
The manager replied, “We offer many games—slot machines, mahjong, sic bo, Texas hold ’em… Which would you like?”
Yan Jiyun scanned the room. The slot machines were crowded with people, likely those searching for a hidden clue in the “Tiger Door.”
Suddenly, at a mahjong table, a player’s head rolled to the floor.
Yan Jiyun tried to keep his expression calm: “……”
Disgusting. Even after over a month in the game, he hadn’t gotten used to sudden gore.
The manager’s face remained unchanged. “Another one lost everything and refused to leave, even wagering his life in the end. A shame.”
Yan Jiyun sensed there was an implicit warning in the manager’s words.
The manager repeated, “Sir, have you decided what to play?”
Yan Jiyun wasn’t skilled at mahjong—a memory game that was too slow-paced for him. He needed fast, sharp games that could provide information quickly.
His gaze landed on a sic bo table.
“Sic bo,” he said.
“Absolutely, sir. How many chips would you like to exchange?” the manager asked.
“What’s the exchange rate?”
“100 points per chip, but our casino is running a promotion. Buy 100 chips and receive 5 extra, 500 gets you 25 more, 1000 gets 50 extra.”
“So, a five percent discount?”
The manager put on the face of a seasoned salesperson. “That’s correct, and there’s a limit. As our 200th player today, a single purchase over 2000 chips will get you an additional 100 chips. We also offer special member rates—become a member and enjoy even more discounts.”
Yan Jiyun recalled going to the arcade with his father: you had to buy game tokens at the counter, where a sign would list bonus deals. If you joined as a member, the discounts were even bigger and tokens more plentiful. Thankfully, his father never had much pocket money to spare; given his love for games, he might have bought a membership on a whim.
He nodded. “Thanks, just give me twenty chips for now.”
“Are you sure you don’t want more? The promotion is quite favorable—you might not get another chance.”
“No, this is fine,” Yan Jiyun insisted.
Twenty chips would suffice.
At one hundred points a chip, twenty chips would cost him two thousand points!
“Very well. Find me if you need more,” said the manager.
He conjured twenty chips and handed them to Yan Jiyun.
In his eyes, Yan Jiyun could see the words: cheapskate.
“Yeah, I’m a cheapskate,” Yan Jiyun thought. “I’m here to earn points, not spend them.”
The manager led him to the sic bo table.
Looking around, Yan Jiyun realized all the current players were NPCs, likely just demonstrating the games for the players.
The manager brought him to the table.
There were ten players gathered around the table, most dressed in casual clothes—Yan Jiyun’s getup still looked jarringly different.
The ten glanced curiously at the newcomer: who wears a three-piece suit to a deadly arena? Was he an idiot, wasting points on clothes that didn’t help him survive—or was he some kind of big shot?
Most were aware that the leaderboard’s number one, Qi Feng, was nearly 1.9 meters tall—certainly not this pretty-faced kid, who didn’t look threatening at all. Maybe he just liked to keep clean and wanted to die with dignity.
As he arrived, a betting round had just ended; Yan Jiyun watched the play.
Bets went in—some on big, some on small.
The dealer shook the dice, then revealed the result.
Three dice: 1, 2, 3—six points. Small.
Of ten players, only two had bet on small. Some were pleased, some disappointed.
Yan Jiyun had gotten into the habit: the first thing he did was check the rules.
“Sic Bo Rules”:
- The dealer rolls the dice, players place bets afterward;
- 4–10 is small, 11–17 is big. Players can choose both amount and odds;
- Three of a kind is called “leopard”—the house wins all;
- Running out of chips allows a player to quit, or, if they wish to win back losses, they can wager a body part or their life: the former pays 200,000 points, the latter 500,000, but the loser pays up accordingly.
Easy to understand, hard to win. Gambling here could cost you your life.
He was reminded of the decapitated head he’d seen earlier—that might not have been a demonstration, but a player who had bet everything, including their life.
What drove someone to bet their life for points? Too reckless, or reckless for a reason?
That was casino logic: to rake in points, they’d use every trick. If a player kept gambling, they’d end up losing, not winning. Yan Jiyun would need to pull out before the odds turned against him.
But he hadn’t forgotten why he was here: to look for an information card.
Which game would award him one?
No matter. Since he was already here, he’d play a round and see what he could find out.
For this round, betting was straightforward: call “big” or “small” and wager the chips, which the game automatically deducted from his total.
One chip was 100 points, twenty chips were 2,000.
Yan Jiyun tossed in just one chip, more to test the waters than anything else. Most players bet on big; he chose small.
“Anyone else?” the dealer asked.
Two players sat out after losing the previous round.
“No more bets? All right, let’s open.”
Dice uncovered: 3, 4, 5—twelve total. Big.
Yan Jiyun lost his first bet—the dealer collected his chip.
There wasn’t much chatter among the players. Having seen Yan Jiyun lose right off, the others concluded he was just here to try his luck, not worth worrying about.
The dealer shook the dice again. After ten seconds or so, he set the cup down.
Yan Jiyun bet again—on small, while most went with big.
“Any more bets?”
Eight players made bets; two sat out.
Dealer opened the cup: 1, 2, 6—nine points, small.
Yan Jiyun won back the chip he’d lost in round one.
That felt good—a successful trial run.
Moving on.
The dealer shook again. When the dice cup landed, Yan Jiyun, without hesitation, tossed two chips on “big”—the fastest player to act. Others paid him little mind, assuming he was just winging it.
Dealer revealed: 2, 4, 6—twelve points. Big.
He won two chips—now up to twenty-two.
The dealer signaled for more wagers.
This time, Yan Jiyun tossed his original twenty chips into his box, putting just the two won chips on “small.”
Others continued betting by their own logic. One player in a white T-shirt had been winning seventy percent of the time, with some others following him in hopes of sharing his luck.
Reveal: 2, 2, 4—eight points. Small.
Yan Jiyun won four more chips.
The game continued.
The dealer now glanced at him more often; other players started feeling this “fresh face” might not be such a novice after all—one loss, then a streak of wins. Was this just dumb luck, or was he a sharp hand at the tables?
He looked too young to be a regular gambler, but with his aristocratic air, maybe he was just used to throwing money around.
While others wondered about his real-world identity, Yan Jiyun kept winning—four straight now.
Again, he only kept his principal, wagering all his earnings each round.
A heavyset player whispered to him, “Dude, you’re good.”
The dealer, still smiling, didn’t comment on Yan Jiyun’s streak. He simply kept collecting lost bets, paying out winnings, and shaking the dice cup.
“It’s just luck,” Yan Jiyun replied.
The game moved on, but soon, the dealer’s indifference began to crack.
Yan Jiyun hit a fifth win, then sixth, seventh—all the way up to ten straight.
He’d earned a hundred thousand points, automatically credited to his account.
From the fifth win onward, other players began mimicking his bets, all sharing in the reward.
Now the dealer’s gaze locked on Yan Jiyun, his formerly pleasant expression turning cold. For the first time, he actually praised a player: “Sir, your luck is impressive.”
As the dealer paid out, his tone grew tighter. Yan Jiyun just smiled and said, “It’s all luck.”
He looked calm on the surface; inside, he knew it wasn’t luck at all—he was relying on his enhanced hearing and discrimination.
The first round really had been luck alone, and he’d lost.
But luck alone was unreliable.
From the second round, he’d focused on distinguishing the sound each die made as it landed; with three dice, each with six faces, there were eighteen distinct possible impacts. The felt-lined dice cup rendered this nearly impossible for normal players—but not for Yan Jiyun.
He’d learned to discern the unique sound of each die landing on each face.
Die 1: 1-1, 1-2, 1-3, 1-4, 1-5, 1-6
Die 2: 2-1, 2-2, 2-3, 2-4, 2-5, 2-6
Die 3: 3-1, 3-2, 3-3, 3-4, 3-5, 3-6
He memorized every nuance of impact—enabling him to predict the outcome.
Yet, his 100,000 points didn’t get him onto the top of the leaderboard. Qi Feng still held first place with a million points.
Yan Jiyun: “……”
No surprise—a top player, and his very own “owner.”
What other entertainment could earn points so quickly, if not the casino?
The dealer kept shaking dice—that was his job.
He set the cup down. “Place your bets,” now in a much chillier tone.
Who would have thought someone could walk away with so many chips?
This time, Yan Jiyun paused. “I won’t bet,” he said.
When the bell rang, all bets were final—only the white-shirt player and another had wagered.
Dealer revealed—triple dice! “Leopard!” the dealer announced. “House wins.”
The two players: “……”
Everyone else had nothing but awe for Yan Jiyun now.
Then, the dealer pressed a button on the small radio clipped to his chest.
“I need a replacement,” he said, then turned to the group, “Another dealer will take over. My shift’s done.”
Yan Jiyun was ready to quit while ahead. Since the dealer had shown his hand with the “leopard,” the next one would no doubt be much tougher; with 100,000 points, he’d done well enough.
But before he could leave, two men in suits blocked his path—like bouncers.
“Sir,” one said, “our boss was very impressed with your luck, and invites you to play a few rounds in the VIP lounge.”
“Oh? Your boss wants to see me?” Yan Jiyun replied calmly.
“Yes.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“Then we’d have to insist you come with us.”
Just as expected, the casino wouldn’t let anyone walk away with a big win. Patting his sleeve, Yan Jiyun replied, “Very well, I’ll go with you.”
It was just like a scene from the movies—if a player starts winning big, the casino suspects cheating.
But here, the dealers weren’t on his side, and he hadn’t tampered with the dice or played cards, so they couldn’t catch him cheating.
Actually, he hadn’t cheated at all.
The other players exchanged glances—some quietly chose to leave, not wanting to stir up trouble after seeing how dangerous the casino could be for winners.
The white-shirt player, though, said to the guards, “I’d like to see your boss’s style myself. Would that be possible?”
“Our boss would be happy to have you join us,” the guard replied.
In other words: if you’re dumb enough to want to watch, be our guest.
Yan Jiyun had noticed the white-shirt before; his win rate hovered around seventy percent, and he bet lightly when he lost. Now he was sure the man was deliberately avoiding attention, earning points without drawing eyes. When Yan Jiyun arrived and absorbed the “hate,” the man continued to play the bystander, perhaps aiming to meet the boss or—more likely—trying to glean clues from different NPCs.
The bouncers led them to the VVVIP lounge.
The walk was about two hundred meters, enough to take in the layout and opulence of the casino—bright carpets, comfortable seats, no windows, all designed to make players forget time.
The casino was well-equipped: food, drink, performances—even heated dance numbers. You could live in the casino without needing a hotel.
Yan Jiyun remained calm; so did the white-shirt, though he didn’t intend to cozy up to him. The guy had “old hand” written all over him; likely seeking clues first, points second.
Many who left the casino already had a code—as proof, clues must be key to escaping Angel City.
Whether nervous or plotting, the white-shirt whispered, “Interested in teaming up?”
He seemed clever, but Yan Jiyun knew nothing about him—he’d never agree to partner up so rashly.
He simply didn’t vibe with most people.
Just before the bouncers pushed open the VVVIP doors, Yan Jiyun asked him, “Do you like small animals?”
The white-shirt blinked. “What?”
What a strange question.
Yan Jiyun didn’t wait for a reply—he already had his answer.
Ever since becoming a cat, he sensed a person’s nature more acutely—whether they liked small animals, he could tell.
If he needed to cooperate with someone he didn’t know, that was his simple litmus test.
Inside, a golden statue of the God of Wealth greeted him. Across the table sat a tall, thin man with a pencil mustache, swamped in an oversized suit. He held an unlit cigarette and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply as if savoring an immortal’s incense.
“Fancy a smoke?” the man offered.
Yan Jiyun calmly sat across from him. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
White-shirt remained standing behind—he knew Yan Jiyun was the real protagonist here.
The mustached boss inquired, “Your name?”
Yan Jiyun kept his real name hidden. “Surname Jiang. Given name You.”
White-shirt glanced at the leaderboard—no such name existed. A fake, clearly.
But the boss didn’t mind—he cared more about defending his own reputation. “From your results, you remind me of my younger days.”
His assistant piped up, “Our boss is the Dice King of Angel City. No one’s ever beaten him.”
The boss laughed, waving him off. “That was another life. I just want to see if my skills are still sharp. Young man—care for ten rounds with me? If you win six out of ten, the chips on the table are yours.”
Yan Jiyun suspected that wasn’t really his goal. “And if I lose?”
The boss lifted his hand. “Then you’ll be leaving your life behind, of course.”
Surrounded by his people, with a windowless room and no escape, Yan Jiyun had little choice. “Your hospitality is hard to refuse, Boss Hu. Let’s begin, then.”
The boss stiffened. “I’m not surnamed Hu.”
“Then what should I call you?” Yan Jiyun asked.
He tossed his cigarette to his assistant. “Name’s Ruan—but call me Brother Ruan.”
Brother Ruan lifted the dice cup. “Let’s begin, little brother.”
Yan Jiyun showed not a flicker of fear. “By all means.”
He sat, utterly composed, not bothering to lean in or exaggerate listening for dice sounds.
Brother Ruan rattled the cup in a dazzling flurry before slamming it on the table.
“Brother Jiang,” he said, “big or small?”