The booth owner's face suddenly brightened as a wicked idea slithered into his mind. From a distance, he spotted two customary officers making their rounds through the betting stands. His lips curled into a thin, triumphant smile.
The odds for Blaise Dean had been 10:1, and the twin girls had bet ten gold coins—meaning he now owed them a full hundred. The thought made his gut twist. One hundred gold coins… gone to a pair of teenage girls. Unacceptable.
But now, a perfect plan presented itself.
He stacked the glittering coins onto the counter, ensuring the sound of clinking metal drew attention. Then, he raised his voice dramatically, playing the part of a wounded merchant.
"You girls are too young to be placing bets!" he barked, loud enough for the nearby crowd to hear. "Tell me—did you steal these coins from your classmates? Is that how you afford such reckless gambling?"
The murmurs started instantly. Heads turned. Curious onlookers gathered, whispering.
Two customary officers approached, their armour gleaming under the sun. The booth owner's grin widened; everything was falling into place.
"Is this true?" one of the officers demanded, his tone sharp as he faced Ouake. "Did you steal these coins to place a wager?"
Ouake's jaw clenched. She glanced at the booth owner and instantly saw the cunning gleam in his eyes. The bastard was exploiting a loophole—accusing them of theft wasn't part of the betting contract, so the blood oath wouldn't punish him for deceit.
Her pulse quickened, but before she could open her mouth—
—a gust of wind swept through the lane.
A figure moved, silent as shadow yet swifter than thought. In the blink of an eye, a man appeared beside the booth, his black hair fluttering in the breeze, his eyes hidden beneath a folded strip of dark cloth. He stood tall, composed, his mere presence bending the noise of the crowd into silence.
He cleared his throat softly—just once—and the sound alone commanded attention.
People turned. And then they froze.
"The Blind Swordsman…" someone whispered, disbelief trembling in their voice.
Within seconds, ripples of panic and awe coursed through the spectators.
"That's Naze—the king's right hand," another voice murmured. "They say he's the deadliest and most powerful man in the entire Nazare Blade Empire!"
"Legend says he was once one of the most remarkable and fearless generals' of Emperor Josh, fighting continuously and fearlessly in the arena against different opponents when the trickster god unleashed his hordes on the mortal realm…"
"Back when the emperor was not yet enthroned and trapped in the Fifth Dimension!"
"…and Naze cut down every enemy that stood in his way. Some say he sees not with eyes, but with the breath of the wind itself."
The murmurs grew into hushed reverence. Seeing him was rarer than seeing a comet—more unbelievable than "a pink elephant on a Thursday," someone muttered.
The booth owner's confidence dissolved like salt in rain. His smile faltered. Beads of sweat gathered on his temple as Naze turned his head slightly toward him.
Though blind, the swordsman's presence felt as though it pierced straight through the merchant's soul.
""Is there a problem here?"
Naze's voice was calm—too calm. Yet every syllable carried the weight of a sword being slowly unsheathed. The air itself seemed to bend around his words.
The booth owner froze. His throat went dry. He turned toward the voice and felt his knees weaken beneath him. This can't be happening, he thought. He hadn't counted on this—on him.
Naze began to walk forward. Every step echoed softly, deliberate, like the toll of a distant bell. His blindfolded eyes were hidden, yet everyone watching felt as though he could see everything.
When he stopped before the booth, the crowd instinctively fell silent. Even the two customary officers stepped back. The air was thick, reverent, and heavy.
Naze tilted his head slightly, as though studying the trembling man before him.
"You had an agreement with these girls," he said, his tone steady, unhurried. "I witnessed the entire scene play out. They only wished to make money—like every other soul placing bets here."
The booth owner's lips trembled as Naze's words continued, sharp and precise.
"They did not trust you, so they insisted on a contract bound by oath. A wise decision, it seems—because now, your greed has proven them right."
Naze's voice darkened slightly.
"Not content with losing fairly, you sought to reclaim what was never yours. You even dared to use the law—utilizing the law enforcers—as your weapon of deceit."
He took one slow step closer. "Tell me," he said, his tone dropping to a near whisper that still carried across the stands, "do you wish to counter these statements?"
The man's mind spun. His breath hitched. His thoughts dissolved into panic. He could feel the weight of every gaze, every whisper of fear around him. His lips quivered uncontrollably.
"I… I… I—" He dropped to his knees. "Forgive me, my lord! Forgive me!"
He clasped Naze's legs desperately, pressing his forehead to the dust. His entire body trembled like a leaf caught in a storm. His words spilled out in gasps. "I beg you—mercy! I meant no harm! I… I was blinded by greed!"
The twin girls, Ouake and Ouale, exchanged looks. The crowd that had moments ago eyed them with suspicion now watched in awe. The tide had turned—completely.
Naze remained still, the faintest breeze stirring the loose strands of his white hair. Then, he turned his head toward the girls. Though his eyes were unseen, his gaze felt like a light that could pierce through souls.
"What say you?" Naze asked softly. "Do I forgive him… or do I punish him?"
The crowd gasped. A chill swept through the arena, rippling like an invisible current. The question wasn't for show. It was real—deadly real. The fate of the booth owner now hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
The man froze, his face drained of all colour. The whisper of a thousand spectators filled his ears like an ocean tide.
Then came the answer—sharp and merciless.
"Punish him," both Ouake and Ouale said in unison, their young voices carrying with startling firmness.