The crowd was still buzzing from the last match, half-drunk on adrenaline and disbelief.
Whispers rippled like waves across the courtyard—everyone talking about the mysterious silver-haired fighter who'd just knocked out the reigning champion after deliberately throwing the first round.
So called him a tactician.
Others called him a lunatic.
Damien didn't seem to care about either opinion.
He dusted off his sleeves, stepped down from the pit, and gave Lyone a subtle nod. Cerbe, still in his tall and imposing human form, fell into step behind them without a word.
Lyone was beaming.
"I can't believe that worked," he whispered, his coin pouch visibly heavier now. "I an—I can, because it's you, but still. That's three thousand gold coins. I could buy a whole street!"
Damien said nothing. Just a slight smirk as he turned toward the edge of the courtyard.
He was ready to leave.
And then—
CLANG.
A heavy, deliberate footstep echoed across the pit floor.
The announcer turned suddenly, eyes wide. "W-We have a new challenger?"
Heads turned.
A large figure stepped into view—taller than Raithe, heavier in build, wrapped in crimson-banded armor. His face was hidden behind a jagged bronze mask, and a greatsword rested on one shoulder like it weighed nothing.
"I'll fight him," the newcor said. His voice was gravel and thunder.
He dropped a clink of gold onto the betting table. "One hundred gold."
The bookie nearly choked. "O-One hundred to challenge?"
"Braun is really coming out to challenge him."
"Haha... He's finished now."
"Braun ca up. It's a win. Gotta bet on Braun."
The crowd erupted again. Cheers. Gasps. Shouted bets.
All eyes turned back to Damien.
He exhaled once, just loud enough for Lyone to hear. "We're not done yet."
Lyone tilted his head. "You sure? That guy looks like he eats bricks."
"I've already won tonight," Damien said calmly, watching the masked warrior take slow, deliberate strides toward the pit. "Now let's win again."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Lyone could hear.
"Stake one hundred gold on winning."
Lyone blinked, then nodded with a grin. "Gladly."
He turned, Cerbe at his side like a living statue, and walked back toward the betting stand.
The bookie stared at him again.
"You're back?"
"One hundred gold. Damien to win."
The odds had dropped this ti. The crowd no longer believed in miracles.
Odds for Damien to lose: 2.5 to 1.
Odds for Damien to win: 25 to 1.
Still steep.
Still foolish to the masses.
But Lyone placed the coin pouch on the table without hesitation.
"Lock it in."
The match began without ceremony.
The masked warrior moved first—fast for his size, swinging the greatsword in a wide arc that split the air with a sonic boom. Damien dodged effortlessly, sliding beneath the swing and landing a sharp jab to the man's ribs.
tal rang out.
The opponent barely flinched.
The crowd cheered. "Too slow, silver-haired brat!"
Damien ducked a second swing, then leapt over the blade's return sweep. His hand snapped upward, unleashing a ripple of pure force. The masked fighter staggered, armor flaring with defensive enchantnts.
Still standing.
Still smiling beneath that mask.
But now—he was taking Damien seriously.
The fight stretched on, blades clashing with skin, boots scraping against stone. Magic essence shimred with each exchange—enhanced movent, reinforced limbs, montary bursts of speed.
But Damien was faster.
Smarter.
Every move he made was layered—one step ahead, one trap behind.
Eventually, the crowd fell silent. The masked fighter began to slow. Every breath heavier. Every strike sloppier.
And then Damien vanished.
One blur—one flicker—and he was behind his opponent, striking the sa spot he'd targeted three tis before.
This ti, the armor cracked.
The warrior groaned, staggered forward, dropped to one knee.
The referee didn't even need to speak.
"Winner: Silver-Haired Brat!"
The crowd exploded.
Even louder than before.
This ti, they believed.
Lyone walked back toward the courtyard, another coin pouch heavy in Cerbe's hand.
"Okay, I have so many plans for this money. I could buy a ship. Or a bakery chain. Or hire a team of chefs who only cook breakfast—"
"Don't get comfortable," Damien interrupted, still dusting his coat off.
"But we're making money!" Lyone protested against Damien's dismissive statent.
Another figure was already walking toward the pit.
Smaller.
Lighter.
Wrapped in a grey robe and hood that masked their features.
"I'll fight him," the third contender said quietly, tossing five gold coins toward the betting table.
People cheered now out of montum. The crowd didn't care who it was anymore—they wanted blood, magic, and coin.
The announcer raised an eyebrow. "Another one already? We've got a streak tonight!"
The bookie shook his head. "Odds on the Silver-hair winning? Let's drop it to 4 to 1—hell, make it 2 to 1."
And that's when Damien gave a glance toward Cerbe.
A ntal command. "Tell Lyone to bet on losing."
The silent order passed between them, invisible to everyone else.
Cerbe leaned in toward Lyone and whispered the ssage.
Lyone blinked. "Wait. Bet on you losing? But you just—?"
"Do it," Cerbe said.
The boy stared. Then slowly nodded. "You guys are the most terrifying gamblers I've ever t."
Back at the betting stand, Lyone placed two hundred gold coins—this ti on Damien losing.
The bookie raised a brow but nodded, recording the bet quickly.
Others were betting too—this ti on Damien. Everyone had seen him win. Everyone wanted a piece of the rising star.
It was perfect.
In the pit, Damien faced the robed challenger.
This ti… he fought slow.
Each dodge ca a half-beat later. His swings landed lighter. His footwork—just enough to sell the illusion of fatigue. And the opponent? Surprisingly good. Clean magic control. Fast hands. A real fighter.
But the match ended with a feigned slip—the opponent's back exposed, a quick takedown, and a pin against the pit wall.
"Winner—The Silver-Haired Brat!"
Cheers.
Wild celebration.
People who had staked on Damien's victory were laughing, hugging, throwing coin pouches in the air.
All as planned.
Damien rose without a word, brushing himself off again.
He walked calmly past the cheering crowd and made a quiet signal to Lyone.
Ti to go.
They didn't need fanfare.
They only needed distance.
Three blocks later, under the shadow of a quiet rooftop, Damien stopped and looked up at the darkened sky.
"Luton," he said softly.
Another blue portal opened once more, and the familiar red sli bounced out, landing with a cheerful bloop.
"Storage," Damien said.
Lyone nodded and handed over the first coin pouch.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Luton expanded greedily, gulping down the heavy stacks of gold as if devouring dessert.
By the ti it shrank back to its usual size, Lyone exhaled.
"That… was insane."
Damien didn't respond.
But his smile—barely visible—told Lyone everything.
They weren't just rich.
They were invisible.
Because no one suspects a man who walks away with nothing. Especially when they themselves had just gotten their fair share of his money.
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