Slot machines are the simplest—just drop a coin, pull the lever.
Some new models swapped the lever for buttons, but most old gamblers still preferred the pull. The weight in your hand, the sense of participation—it felt real.
Lock picked up a coin, closed his eyes slightly, and began to tune his luck.
Tens of thousands of fortune points seemed intangible, yet when he released even a fraction, the air in the entire casino shifted.
That slot machine in the corner suddenly became the center of the room.
An illusion, maybe, but every gambler's eyes were dragged toward it. Like a sudden sun in darkness—irresistible, undeniable.
Ordinary people's luck values barely reached the dozens.
A hundred already marked you as "favored by heaven"—the type who stumbled into promotions, found winning tickets, or escaped accidents with absurd coincidences.
Only superheroes could shatter mortal limits and break into the hundreds.
But Lock? Tens of thousands.
Even he didn't know what results such a magnitude could achieve.
"Clack."
He dropped the coin.
The reels spun, flashing fruit, bars, bells—then slowed.
7. 7. 7.
"Woooahhh—!"
The casino erupted.
Three 7s. The ultimate jackpot.
In Western culture, 7 was holy—the seventh day, God's rest, blessed number. On slots, triple-7 meant absolute payout.
And this was New York's largest casino. The prize pool above blinked a single number:
70,000,000 USD.
Seventy million, clean.
Lock didn't flinch.
Around him, whispers ran hot: Did he cheat? Use powers? Rig the machine?
But Lock had used no divine power.
Instead, when he pulled, a strange current brushed through him—ephemeral but real.
This was luck at work.
Normally, fortune couldn't be felt, no matter how strong you were. It shaped events quietly, bending the world itself to favor its chosen.
Like how heroes, no matter how battered, always turned the tables. How villains, no matter how mighty, always slipped at the crucial moment.
In the Marvel world, the clearest example was Domino—"Lucky Girl."
Her power bent reality itself.
Fall from the sky? A balloon truck happened to pass by.
Lose control of a car? The wheel spun by itself, dodging obstacles, obeying her unspoken will.
No Tesla Autopilot could dream of that. Luck warped the world to cradle her.
Lock thought of his past life.
Great figures had always seemed guided.
Zhu Yuanzhang, from beggar to emperor.
Mao, the teacher who made 1.4 billion sing of the East turning red.
Impossible odds, yet they succeeded, as though fortune itself paved their road.
Lock, since transmigrating, had shared the fortune of countless superheroes. His reservoir of luck grew vast beyond imagining.
Now, with power honed, he could touch the weave—glimpsing how it nudged the world.
If luck bent events for its bearer… then by controlling it, he could wield it directly.
Attack with it. Kill with certainty. No chance, no randomness.
The feeling had been fleeting, but enough.
He slowed his breath. Drew the luck back, buried it deep in the system.
Instantly, his aura vanished. From the center of the world to utterly forgettable.
Gamblers blinked. Nothing about him had changed, yet he no longer pulled the eye.
"Clack."
Lock dropped a second coin—this time with luck suppressed, even lower than normal men.
The reels spun. Random junk. No prize.
Lock smiled. This, too, was useful. Both gain and loss taught him.
The manager rushed over with a golden tray, bowing. A diamond chip and two gold, seventy million in total.
"Congratulations, sir. Please accept your winnings."
Lock waved him off, still processing the feeling.
The shift. The interference. The hand that touched the wheel.
The manager lingered awkwardly, tray in hand.
Natasha leaned close, whispering, "How is it?"
"A trace," Lock murmured.
The manager wanted to cry. A trace? A seventy-million-dollar jackpot, and he called it a trace? What would it take to actually excite this man?
Lock finally picked up the chips, weighing them in his palm. Is this… the world's response to fortune?
Natasha nudged him again. "Don, gamblers usually tip when they win big."
Tipping wasn't something Lock had ever cared for—an Eastern transmigrant, casinos had never been his culture. But if Natasha said it was custom, so be it.
He handed the manager a golden chip. "Enough?"
"Enough! Thank you, sir, thank you!" The man nearly bowed to the floor. A ten-thousand-dollar tip—generous beyond belief.
Then Lock kept going.
Two coins at every slot machine.
The first had yielded triple-7. The second, nothing. The rest rolled one after another, with minor wins and losses, no jackpot again.
Other coin machines caught his eye—marble drops, spin wheels, flashing lights.
He stood puzzled before them until Natasha explained each.
Lock glanced at her. "How do you know all this so well? I've never heard of you gambling."
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A/N: Advanced Chapters Have Been Uploaded On My Patreon
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