Limitless Evolution As a Snake

Yeah, okay, loaded, sure, whatever. I got something better than money, i got a gambling skill. I can do that.

[System: Did you know where your skill comes from? It lives in my tail like a little coin-shaped tumour.]

Thanks, I hate it.

[Skill Available: Snake Eyes Gamble]

I don’t even think about it; I just do it. A coil shivers up near the tip of my tail and pops out a little disc. One side’s got a happy koala face on it, chubby cheeks, big dumb grin. The other side’s got a koala looking real horny for some reason, tongue out, eyes half-lidded like he just saw a eucalyptus tree wearing lingerie.

I don’t ask questions anymore. That’s rule one of having a system built by a dead Australian.

The coin drops onto the felt, a spinning disc of heat my pits track as it wobbles longer than physics should allow. Everyone’s eyes are locked on it, moth ladies, cat dudes, some rabbit-eared guy. I can feel the warmth of their collective stare, a focused thermal bloom in the cool casino air. They’re mesmerised, caught in the coin’s strange gravity.

[System: NOOO FUCK]

The coin wobbles, slows, and finally flops flat. Happy koala face up, heads. Thank god

”YESSSSS,” I shout, way too loud, my tail thumping the floor beside the table hard enough to rattle the chips.

[System: mate, that’s the bad one; that’s the Luck one. Oh no, here we go]

Old Mate’s panicked shouts fade into a distant hum, drowned out by the raw current roaring through me. It’s like my whole body’s been dipped in gold and every scale humming, every muscle thrumming with the certainty that the next breath I take will be lucky. The air itself tastes different, charged and sweet like ozone and sugar. I don’t just feel lucky; I feel inevitable. Like the universe just handed me the cheat codes and winked.

So I nudge my entire stack of chips, all four grand, right onto green with my snout.

The table laughs. Actual laughing, moth wings buzzing with it, one of the cat guys nearly spits his drink out, which he finally took a sip of.

”Bro, that’s suicide,” he laughs.

I don’t even look at him. ”Spin it.”

The dealer, some fox lady with a bored expression that says she’s seen a thousand idiots do exactly this, flicks the wheel. The ball drops in, rattles around the numbers like a pinball having an identity crisis, bounces off two dividers, skips one more time.

And it drops dead centre into green. The table goes silent for one second, then explodes—not in fire, but in hype. I let out a triumphant, guttural hiss as my tail thrashes, knocking over a drink. My wings flare on instinct, smacking a moth lady who doesn’t even notice through the crowd’s pandemonium. Four thousand dollars just became four hundred thousand in under a minute.

[System: YESSSS ON THE BEVS LET’S GET DRUNK]

Bunny girls appear out of nowhere like they were hiding under the table this whole time waiting for a reason to exist, sparklers hissing, bottles popping, someone’s pouring champagne straight into my open jaw which honestly works better than I expected. People I’ve never met are wrapping their soft limbs around my coils, pressing their warm bodies against my scales. A guy in a suit is filming this on his phone yelling something about ”the crimson snake” like I’m about to become a meme.

I’m rich. I’m actually, stupidly, impossibly rich.

And somewhere in the back of my skull, past the sparklers and screaming and champagne burning down my throat in the wrong direction, Old Mate is already planning what to spend it on, and none of it sounds responsible.

There’s a figure beside me now, Hana.

”Congrats, young lord,” she says, not even flinching at the chaos. ”You want to store that, or you going to get us to carry the four hundred grand?”

Solid question. I’m built for slithering and looking cool, zero pockets, zero hands, zero storage, basically. Hell, I’m totally naked. Should I try and find a coat that fits me? Do they make that?

”Uh,” I say, sounding brilliant, ”how do people normally do this?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she slips a little silver chip from her jacket—no bigger than a grain of rice—and pinches it between her thumb and forefinger like it’s nothing.

”Hold still.”

I get no vote. She presses the chip against my scales near the hood. It pings off, skitters across the table, and a bunny-lady waitress snatches it midair.

Hana arches one brow, as if my scales personally insulted her.

”Huh,” she murmurs. ”Never had that happen before.”

My hood gives a slight, involuntary flare. My scales are basically dragon-grade keratin now. Tough luck.

She shrugs, retrieves the chip, flips it over, and offers it again. ”Try beneath the scales; there’s a gap on your underside.”

[System: SHE MEANS YOUR COCK.]

No, she doesn’t. Please shut up.

Fine, I shift a coil, expose one of those soft skin strips between plates, and will it in. It slides right through, no jab, just a weird itch.

Then my vision ignites.

Literally: a floating UI screen snaps into view, the interface hovering just inches from my snout. Big green numbers: $404,000.

Below: two blinking message icons, a little mail letter flashing ”Message from Dad read it.”

My coils, which had been loosely settled on the floor, suddenly tighten. I didn’t know I had a number, didn’t know texting was still a thing, and here’s proof my mafia dad’s been trying to reach me. Oops.

”Young lord,” Hana says, voice low and precise like she can taste the panic in my tiny sniper sausage of a skull.

”This is how it works. The chip’s got your balance, your messages, everything. Ami phased out wallets about 80 years ago.”

Right. Wallets, I’ll for sure, 100%, sort out all of that later maybe, if I can be bothered.

[System: MATE. MATE, WE GOT ONE MINUTE LEFT ON THE LUCK. ONE MINUTE.]