The betting booth was lively with murmured wagers and the clinking of coins. Arthur approached the wooden counter and reached into his coat.
The pouch he withdrew was heavy with gold, its weight solid and certain. He dropped it onto the counter with a dull thud.
"I'll be betting all of this on fighter number three."
For a fleeting moment, the murmurs dulled, a ripple of interest passing through the gathered spectators. The bookmaker, a wiry man with sharp eyes, let a grin split his face.
"All of it, eh? Well now, that's some confidence."
It wasn't confidence. It was certainty.
"Now, now. Please, everyone, take your seats. The main event will commence shortly."
The announcer's voice carried over the bustling crowd, his words laced with authority and practiced ease. A murmur of anticipation swept through the audience as nobles and commoners alike settled into their places, eyes alight with cruel fascination.
From Arthur's vantage point in the grandstand, he could see it all, the sprawling stone ground marked by old bloodstains, the towering iron cage at the center, and the fighters being herded inside like animals.
"Move! I'll enter on my own!"
Some entered willingly, their expressions set with grim determination.
"No! No, please!! I don't want to fight!!"
Others fought against their fate, dragged forward by guards who shoved them through the open gate before slamming it shut with a resounding clang.
"Please, let me out!!! I don't know how to fight!!"
Above Arthur, in the private sections, the wealthiest nobles lounged in luxury, sipping brandy from crystal glasses as they discussed bloodlines and wagers with the casual ease of men accustomed to deciding the fates of others.
His seat had been reserved at the best vantage point, ensuring he would miss nothing.
"THE FIGHT SHALL COMMENCE NOW!"
The moment the signal was given, the arena erupted into chaos.
The clash of steel against steel rang out, punctuated by the sickening crunch of flesh meeting bone. The scent of blood mingled with the metallic tang of rust from the iron bars, and the air grew thick with the screams of the dying.
"Aaargh!!!"
A man fell in front of another, crushed as if he were nothing but a mere ant.
"Eekkk!!"
After a brief moment, the man stood up, horrified by what he had witnessed. Blood was everywhere inside the cage. He began banging the cage door with considerable force, demanding to be released.
"Open the door, you bastards!!! Let me out, right now!!"
However, his pleas were ignored as he was shortly dragged back in by the others.
Arthur, who saw the scene, couldn't look any longer and turned his gaze away.
He leaned back, his gaze flickering past the carnage to where the boy moved through the stands.
"I hope he doesn't get caught and does his job properly."
The boy approached a particular nobleman, lingering just long enough to exchange a few whispered words.
"Where is it?"
The nobleman didn't even bother to hide his presence, as if confident that none could do anything to him.
"Here, sir."
The boy handed over the envelope. The nobleman opened it right away to check.
"Hmm. You didn't get caught, did you?"
He placed the envelope inside his coat.
"Th-that... I was..."
The nobleman stared at the boy with an intense gaze.
"What?!"
"H-however, I managed to get away."
The noble's expression twisted in annoyance. His gloved hand shot out to grab the boy by the collar.
"You didn't lead them here, did you?!"
A flicker of tension passed through Arthur. He wondered if the boy had already been caught.
'Wait... did he find out already?'
The boy, though clearly afraid, managed to calm himself and replied:
"No... I swear, I didn't!"
At his words, the nobleman's grip loosened.
A heartbeat later, the boy was released, only for the guard standing behind him, a man with the disciplined stance of a trained soldier, to shove him back, sending him stumbling.
It was a warning. A demand for him to be on his way.
The boy hesitated, then lifted a hand, fingers brushing his palm in a subtle gesture. He was asking for payment.
"Then at least give me the remaining amount!"
The nobleman, predictably, did not oblige.
"Be on your way before I kill you!"
Arthur watched from the dim glow of his private section, his attention flickering toward the guard. But then a glint of gold caught his eye, the insignia on the nobleman's cane.
The Lion.
It's mouth was wide open, as if he was roaring.
The emblem belonged to the Arundell Family. A house renowned for producing the empire's finest talents. They recruited and trained countless soldiers.
Arthur had been suspicious of how they discovered such talent, but now he knew.
They didn't find them, they made them fight, weeding out the weak and shaping the strong into loyal soldiers. Or rather, loyal dogs.
The boy lingered a moment longer before turning away, stepping back into the sea of spectators.
Yet just as he did, a faint glint of silver caught the light.
A coin pouch.
A smirk curled at Arthur's lips.
'That brat. He lifted it straight from the guard's pocket without hesitation.'
Arthur's gaze trailed after him as he slipped into the crowd, his movements fluid, seamless. He was like water, bending and twisting between bodies with practiced ease, never too hurried, never too slow. He belonged to the shifting mass of people, a ghost within the current, seen but unnoticed.
Then, within the span of a breath, he was gone.
'Huh... where did he disappear to?'
A roar of cheers erupted around Arthur, jolting his attention back to the arena.
"Waaah!!!"
Arthur shifted his gaze toward the bloodstained pit below, just as the fight reached its inevitable climax.
Two figures remained.
A hulking brute, his sweat-drenched muscles glistening under the harsh lights. A seasoned fighter, no doubt, his stance wide, his breathing steady, his fists tight with the kind of confidence that came from countless victories.
Opposite him stood a slender man, his frame almost unimposing in comparison. He was lean, deceptively unarmored, but his posture was sharp and poised.
There was no wasted movement, no unnecessary tension in his limbs. His gaze was unwavering, cold and calculating.
The hulking brute spoke up with quite a bit of confidence in his voice.
"If you plead honestly, I may let you live out of generosity."
Whereas, the slender man scratched the back of his head as he sighed and replied half-heartedly.
"Sigh... No need."
"Haha! It seems you don't know how to beg. Let me teach you today as I break your bones."
"You sure know how to joke, muscle man."
The crowd bellowed the name with certainty, their voices merging into a deafening chant.
"Patrick! Patrick! Patrick!"
"Ha! Are you hearing these voices? It seems the audience is well aware who will be victorious."
The crowd believed in strength, in raw power. In the illusion that size and might dictated the outcome of battle.
But they were fools. And reality was never so kind.
"Then shall we test it out, huh?"
The hulking man grinned as if his victory was pre-determined.
"I would love to!"
A single moment, so swift it would have eluded an untrained eye, decided everything.
The slender man moved. A flicker, a blur. His footwork was fluid, his strike merciless.
His fist tore through the air like steel, driving into the man's jaw with brutal precision.
Wham!
With a sickening crunch, the brute crumpled, his massive frame crashing to the stone ground like a felled beast.
Thud!
A final, broken breath slipped from his lips. The crowd fell into a stunned silence.
"Haa... H-how...?"
A lone figure stood amidst the carnage.
Blood glistened on his knuckles, sweat traced glimmering paths down his skin, and his chest rose and fell with the measured cadence of a man who had mastered exhaustion.
Around him, silence reigned, thick and oppressive, broken only by the faint, ragged breaths of the dying. Bodies littered the stone floor, twisted in agony or stilled in death, the violence etched into every motionless limb.
"And the winner is… number three!"
The announcer's voice thundered through the arena, shattering the hush like a blade through glass.
And then, the chaos erupted through the arena.
"…Woah!!!"
The crowd surged to their feet, a wave of excitement rippled through the arena.
'Just as I expected.'
"A new champion has risen!"
The crowd roared in a tide of voices, their excitement crashing like waves against the stone walls of the arena.
"Ralph! Ralph!"
Arthur had known the outcome long before the first blow had been struck.
Because in the novel, the winner's name had already been etched in ink and distributed in crisp morning editions of the local papers, mere days before the Fourth Prince's birthday celebration. Ralph, the underdog with the golden left hook.
Arthur remained seated in the shadowed box, away from the flickering torchlight and far from the eyes that mattered.
"Who was the winner, sir?"
Arthur turned sharply, watching as the boy reappeared beside him, his expression infuriatingly calm, as if he hadn't just vanished into thin air moments ago.
'Haah... this boy sure is talented.'
"Don't worry, it was the same guy you placed bets on."
"I understand."
Arthur rested his fingers on the iron railing as he spoke up again.
"Where do you plan to go now?"