The Shadow Wolf's Second Life: They Bullied The Wrong Omega

I shoved Edgar’s black chip deep into the pocket of the oversized staff hoodie, adjusting the worn cap low over my brow to obscure my face.

The heavy fabric buried my female silhouette completely, making me look like just another scrawny, nondescript kid in short pants trying his luck in the underground. Jayden wouldn’t recognize me even if I walked right past his serving tray.

I pushed open the double doors at the end of the service corridor, stepping straight into the main gambling hall.

The sudden wall of noise hit me instantly—clinking glass, shouting wolves, the rhythmic shuffle of cards, and the overwhelming scent of cheap whiskey, cigar smoke, and heavy Beta auras.

High-stakes tables lined the polished floor, surrounded by loud, arrogant patrons tossing high-value chips around like pocket change.

Instead of heading for the low-tier slots, I navigated straight toward the high-stakes table area in the center of the hall.

A sharp-eyed dealer—a manning croupier wearing a crisp suit—glanced up as I approached, his brow furrowing in immediate disdain at my baggy attire.

”Looking for the penny machines, kid? The high-table floor is reserved for actual patrons,” the croupier said, his voice dripping with condescension as he shuffled a deck of heavy, plastic-coated cards.

I didn’t utter a single word of complaint. Instead, I reached into my pocket, pulled out Edgar’s matte-black chip, and casually slid it across the green felt table.

The moment the croupier’s eyes landed on the golden crest stamped into the center of the black alloy, his entire posture stiffened. His fingers froze mid-shuffle, his jaw visibly slackening. He picked up the chip with trembling hands, inspecting the mark before staring up at me with wide, terrified eyes.

”Where did you get this?”

A slow, wicked smirk spread across my face under the shadow of my cap.

I knew holding onto this chip was the right move.

”I may not look it but I’m here as Edgar Morningstar’s personal guest,” I lied smoothly, leaning my elbows against the padded edge of the table with complete, unbothered arrogance. ”The first round is on his tab.”

”M-My apologies, Miss!” The croupier bowed his head frantically, holding the token like a piece of sacred glass. ”How... how many dollars worth of chips would you like to open with?”

”Five hundred dollars worth,” I replied flatly. ”Let’s start with Texas Hold’em.”

”Right away!”

He scrambled to count out a stack of pristine, high-denomination chips, placing them neatly in front of me while the surrounding players—a pair of heavy-set Beta merchants and a scar-faced wolf—eyed me with sudden, sharp caution.

In my past life, reading a target’s bluff at a table was second nature.

Card games like poker and blackjack weren’t just games of chance to an assassin. They were games of micro-expressions, heartbeat reads, pupil dilation, and cold, calculated probability. Even if the color of the cards have changed across the eras, cards were still cards.

Money was important to buy decent food, basic supplies, and medical supplements and boosters for this weak body over the next two weeks. But money had its limits. In a pack-based territory ruled by raw force and political hierarchies, real power required high-level connections.

And who better to exploit for connections than a mysterious, powerhouse Alpha running a casino? Edgar thought he was turning down a desperate girl trying to throw herself at him.

He had no idea he had just handed his personal pass to a predator.

I stacked my five hundred dollars’ worth of chips into a neat tower, leaning back in my chair as the dealer began distributing the first hand.

”Deal,” I said softly, my eyes locking onto the scar-faced wolf across the table. ”Let’s see how much of Edgar’s vault I can drain before he comes back to check on his guest.”

”You’re just trying to act tough, kid,” the scar-faced wolf snorted, tossing a fifty-dollar chip into the pot with a heavy clatter. ”A scrawny little mutt hiding under a oversized hat isn’t going to scare anyone at this table.”

I tilted my head slightly under the shadow of my brim, my expression deadpan.

I wasn’t going to waste my breath entertaining their meaningless trash talk. Words were useless noise; results were the only thing that mattered. From the condescending gleam in their eyes and the subtle, arrogant smirks exchanged across the green felt, it was very clear they had already written me off as easy money.

I watched their hands. The scar-faced wolf had a slight, almost imperceptible twitch in his index finger whenever he adjusted his cards—a amateurish attempt to palming or signals, likely a few cheap tricks they used to bleed inexperienced players dry.

Idiots. They thought they were playing against a helpless kid looking for a thrill. They had no idea they were sitting across from a master of human observation.

I could read the micro-flushes in their necks, the subtle shifts in their breathing patterns, and the exact moment their confidence turned into a bluff.

They were going to lose every single chip sitting on that felt. And when the dust settled, I would be the undisputed victor.

The first round began, and just as it began, it ended with a swift close. Just as predicted, I swept the pot clean.

Their faces flushed a deep, ugly crimson, vein-thick foreheads bulging as they slammed their cards down.

”Beginner’s luck!” the scar-faced wolf spat, glaring at my stack of chips.

I didn’t bother arguing. I simply nodded, entertaining their bitter excuses with a cool, detached silence, and gestured for the dealer to distribute the next hand.

We played round after round. With every deal, I read their micro-expressions, tracked their pathetic attempts at sleight of hand, and systematically drained their wallets dry.

When they couldn’t take the humiliation anymore, the bloated-face sore losers surged up from their seats. Their chairs clattered hard against the floor behind them as they pointed trembling, enraged fingers straight at my face.

”You cheated!” the scar-faced one roared, his chest heaving. ”There’s no way a scrawny brat like you hits every hand! You’re definitely pulling something!”

By then, my initial five-hundred-dollar stack had ballooned to over five thousand dollars—fifty solid credits. To men like them, losing that kind of money to an absolute nobody was a lethal blow to their pride. Looking at my small, covered frame, there was no way they were going to let me walk out cleanly.

I let out a soft, low chuckle under my breath.

Idiots.

The scar-faced wolf caught the sound. His temper completely snapped, and he unleashed his Beta aura, sending a wave of oppressive pressure rippling through the air. It was pathetic, truly.

”What’s so funny, kid?!” he snarled, stepping around the table with his fists balled tight. ”I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never—”

Before he could take another step, I turned my head lazily toward the dealer.

”Are you really going to let these guys treat Edgar’s guest like this?” I asked, keeping my tone entirely unbothered. ”What do you think happens if Edgar finds out I was threatened on his floor?”

I finished with a slow, exaggerated yawn.

The dealer’s face drained of all color at the mention of Edgar’s name. Panic flashing in his eyes, he frantically waved his hands, signaling the guards patrolling the perimeter. Within seconds, four massive bouncers moved in, grabbing the sore losers by their arms and violently hauling them back toward the exit.

”He’s a cheat! He’s in cahoots with the dealer!” the scar-faced wolf shrieked, kicking wildly as he was dragged down the central aisle. ”Check the deck! Check his pockets! I can’t accept this!!!”

Their furious screams faded down the corridor as the heavy doors slammed shut behind them.

The gambling hall settled back into its rhythmic hum of low music and shuffling cards. I turned back to the trembling dealer, my lips curling into a sharp, wicked grin under the shadow of my cap.

”Shall we continue?”