Chapter Twenty-Eight: Placing the Bet

"How come I get the feeling you're just guessing randomly?" Colin asked, feeling uneasy as he watched Vikir's careless movements.

"Why are you worrying? If I lose, I'll pay you back triple, so you're bound to make a profit either way." Vikir raised his glass and clinked it against Colin's. "By the way, how much money did you bring?"

"Five thousand," Colin replied.

In a place like Leizein, money is referred to simply by the number, without specifying the currency, as Gold Kinks are the standard. It is only in the slums of Zword that people specify Silver or Copper Kinks.

"How about this: lend me all that money. Whether we win tonight or not, I'll give you fifteen thousand." Vikir was determined to win today's matches, so he needed to increase his principal as much as possible to secure a greater return.

"Forget triple; if you can give me ten thousand in the end, I'll be satisfied," Colin scoffed.

"Fine, then ten thousand it is." Vikir shamelessly took the five thousand Gold Kinks in advance.

Colin pulled a stack of one-hundred-Gold-Kink notes from his pocket and threw them on the table. "I'll be waiting to see you cry."

Vikir looked at the stack of money, then shifted his gaze toward the arena.

After Kizi brutally slaughtered his opponent, the staff rushed onto the stage to quickly clear the scene.

"Kizi, the brutal beast who has reigned as champion for twenty-two consecutive matches, has won today's first victory!" the announcer, tasked with warming up the crowd, roared.

Everyone who had bet on Kizi erupted in cheers.

Kizi relished the feeling of being adored, pacing back and forth in the ring to accept the applause.

"Now! The matches continue! Facing Kizi in the second round is Lermontov from the snowy Bash Empire! He once single-handedly took down an entire squad of police officers who were pursuing him! He is known as the 'Northern Reaper'!" The announcer used highly exaggerated language to stir the emotions of the audience.

Following his introduction, a bald, muscular man over two meters tall, covered in thick body hair, walked up. The giant seemed uncomfortable with being watched; he looked around warily, slowly climbed into the ring, and locked eyes with Kizi.

Kizi snapped out of his frenzy, his sharp gaze falling upon Lermontov, quietly scrutinizing this difficult prey.

Lermontov did not show a strong desire to fight Kizi; he continued to look around, as if searching for an escape route. Unfortunately, more than a dozen armed bodyguards were stationed around the ring, forcing him to abandon any thoughts of resistance.

"This round is interesting," Colin said, straightening his back, his eyes gleaming. "That guy is a whole size bigger than Kizi and even took down a squad of police on his own. He truly lives up to being from the fierce Bash Empire."

"Waiter," Vikir called out.

The waiter waiting nearby walked over, bowed, and asked respectfully, "How may I help you?"

"Mr. Colin is betting on Kizi to win this round." Vikir picked up the five thousand Gold Kinks from the table and handed them to the waiter.

"Understood." The waiter took the money and left.

"Wait, aren't you going to bet on the next round? And why are you betting under my name?" Colin asked, curious.

"Since there's still another round, why not earn more principal in advance?" Vikir countered. "As for why I'm using your identity, I just want to keep a low profile."

Colin couldn't stand Vikir's confident air. "You're too cocky. How can you be so sure you'll get the bet right? This Bash man is clearly more powerful than Kizi."

"You're going to profit in the end anyway, so don't worry," Vikir laughed dismissively.

"True, why am I bothering to worry for you?" Colin crossed his arms, stopped talking, and focused on the upcoming second round.

After everyone in the arena had placed their bets, the announcer revealed the support ratio for this round: "The support for Kizi has dropped to 0.57, while the debutant Lermontov has set a new record for support—excluding Kizi—over the past week, reaching 0.43!"

"This round is a decent gamble; everyone thinks highly of Lermontov." Vikir had long forgotten the specific ratios, remembering only that Kizi would be the ultimate winner. Now that the bets were nearly even, after deducting the arena's 15% commission, he would walk away with nearly five thousand Gold Kinks.

By raising his principal to around ten thousand, and going against the grain in a match where almost everyone favored Kizi, he could make a killing!

Earning money this way was simply too fast. It was a pity that Vikir had only followed Colin to watch the fights for this one night; otherwise, his trip to Leizein wouldn't have been such a hassle. He could have just harvested wealth from the arena every day and, in ten days, slipped away to another country to live a life of luxury.

As Vikir reflected, the fight in the ring began.

To everyone's surprise, Lermontov lasted less than three rounds before Kizi kicked his leg bone, rendering him unable to move. He was then treated like a punching bag, pummeled with fists and kicks until he was unrecognizable.

Lermontov, curled into a ball and shielding his head, begged for mercy, but Kizi was blinded by bloodlust, and the pleas only made him more excited.

Those who had bet on Lermontov cursed loudly, while those who had stuck with Kizi praised his ferocity.

"Is this Bash man really that fragile?" Colin, forgetting that Kizi's victory meant they would make a huge profit, stared in disbelief at the dying Lermontov.

"His combat experience is far inferior to Kizi's, and you could tell from the moment he entered that he was resistant to this kind of life-or-death struggle. It's only natural he lost," Vikir analyzed.

"How come your judgment wasn't this good before?" Colin asked.

Vikir chuckled. "Isn't it because I've started taking it seriously?"

The blonde man sitting next to them, having lost two thousand Gold Kinks on Lermontov, looked displeased. "These low-life pieces of trash."

Hearing this, the smile that had been on Vikir’s face froze; his joy was washed away by the nobleman's words of contempt.

"Haha, Chris has really turned things around this time," Colin said, excitedly chatting with the blonde man.

None of the audience here felt the arena was cruel. These desperate men, dragged from all corners of the world by the arena owner, existed only for their amusement.

Looking at the polished and well-dressed Vikir, he was, in reality, no different from the fighters in the ring who were destined to die.

People like them, without power or status, were born to be pawns, summoned and discarded at the whim of nobles and the wealthy.

Vikir couldn't help but clench his fists.

He would not allow himself to ever fall into a position where he could be slaughtered like those fighters. Anyone who dared to play with him like a pawn would pay the price.

"The highly anticipated 'Northern Reaper' Lermontov is no match for Kizi after all! Is Kizi going to achieve a five-match winning streak today? Let's wait and see!"

Lermontov didn't last much longer before the staff confirmed his death.

The waiter quickly brought the money to Vikir. Including the principal and the winnings from the second round, it totaled nine thousand eight hundred and forty-five Gold Kinks.

"Not bad at all." Colin looked at the stack of money, which was nearly twice as thick as before, and felt pleased.

"The best part is yet to come," Vikir said, his expression cold as he stared intently at the arena.