Overturning the Table

Shi Tiexin casually flicked his hand. His fingers caught four Ks with a swish, and without even looking, he slapped them onto the table before turning toward the next game.

A mahjong game.

At the mahjong table, they were already one player short.

For the third time, the old beggar narrated in his heart: This was the most dangerous of the Thirty-Six Arts of Gambling, the forty-fourth art—Formation Weaving. Three against one, using deliberate discards and arranged self-draws to create a three-on-one setup. It was extremely perilous. And judging by the size of those mahjong tiles, which were slightly larger than ordinary ones, their markings revealed one thing.

This table was playing Sichuan Mahjong's Bloody Battle to the End!

For a gambler, this was truly danger piled upon danger, nine deaths and one narrow chance at life!

Yet Shi Tiexin merely flicked his robe and sat down calmly. Carrying the might of two sweeping victories, mixed with the intent of the Fire Tribulation Blade, he looked down upon the other three as though they were children. Pressured by his aura, the three immediately shrank back slightly, their hands and feet practically cramping.

Shi Tiexin swept his gaze around and said slowly, "You lot do know I'm Chinese, don't you? You dare challenge me at mahjong? Do you know what my country's national art is?"

The three stammered out their answers:

"Hotpot?"

"Table tennis?"

"Mahjong?"

"Men's football?"

"Bullshit!" Shi Tiexin stretched all ten fingers. "It's the arts of power."

Sichuan Mahjong emphasized fighting to the bitter end. So long as tiles remained on the table and players remained beside it, the round could not end.

Round after round, after three rounds, all three began drinking water. They had sweated so much that if they did not replenish themselves, they would easily