[What terrible luck. First of all, to be here, completely alone and without even the System to tell him in that annoying Google Translate-ass voice what's going on, that's already a terrible start to his week. But to find out that the main methods of making money are gambling and fucking? The two things that Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky either sucked at or never did in his first life, and hated / never got the chance to do in his second! Unfair! What kind of karma is this?!

He'd tried gambling. Shang Qinghua steps away from the blackjack table missing half his starting money, and cursing creatively under his breath. Luck really is never on his side! At least he'd already bought himself some clothes. They're a bit more brothel-y than befits a Peak Lord, even a Peak Lord of An Ding, but the mask reminiscent of clouds is kind of nice, he guesses. It's a bit like cosplay. With less money than he started, and his mood foul, he grabs a cocktail just for something to do with his hands (The fuck is a ruby tongue?), and decides to wander the floor instead.

The voice catches his attention, and he glances toward the same group of haughty looking fuckers, wrinkling his nose. Spoiled rich types. He doesn't feel too charitable after a losing streak.] Like a herd of overstuffed peacocks. I suppose this place is aptly named. Maybe some of us will be so fortunate as to receive a cushy, pompous little life like that when they assign us ranks.

[His bitter tone says he figures they'll probably chuck him in the basement.]