Neil Bennett personally held the barrier open for Simon to step into the ring. Ignoring the buzzing chatter already rising around them, he eyed his boss's body, a sculpted build that easily outclassed most ordinary people, and still couldn't hide his worry. "Boss, how about we go back and train for a while before you do this? It's dangerous."
Simon rolled his wrists, then held his hands out to Neil. "It's a little loose. Tighten it again."
With a helpless sigh, Neil leaned over the barrier and cinched the gloves tighter. He looked Simon up and down, then turned and gave a few instructions to the arena manager beside him. The manager quickly had someone bring over a set of joint guards, then waved a bikini-clad ring girl onto the platform to help Simon put them on.
Simon sat on the stool Neil shoved through the barrier and said to the brown-haired girl who leaned in eagerly, "Skip the wrist and knee guards. Just the ankle guards."
The brown-haired girl nodded obediently and crouched in front of him. Seeing him lift his leg, she reached out, pulled his foot toward her, and simply set it on her pale thigh while she slid the guard into place. As she worked, she said, "Mr. Westeros, my name is Danica."
Simon didn't refuse the little perk being offered on a silver platter. Smiling, he said, "Hi. I'm Simon."
Danica smiled too, revealing a pair of lovely dimples.
Once the ankle guards were on, Simon stood and bounced a couple times, then lifted a hand toward the arena manager.
"And this," Neil Bennett, still on the other side of the barrier, held up a mouthguard. Catching the hesitation on Simon's face, he added quickly, "Brand new."
Only then did Simon open his mouth and bite down on it.
The restlessness in the crowd grew more and more obvious.
With the mouthguard in place, Simon flicked a glance down at Patrick Johnston and James Packer, then started loosening up, warming his body.
On the other side, a fighter with a buzz cut and a build about the same as Simon's climbed into the ring and gave Simon a polite smile.
But there was clear caution in his expression.
Simon Westeros.
How the hell was he supposed to fight this?
Everyone in this place was a professional. They made their living with their fists.
And who was Simon Westeros?
The youngest billionaire. North America's richest man with six billion to his name. A Hollywood director. A genius in finance and investment. The Johnston family's future son-in-law.
A whole string of glittering labels.
Just not "fighter."
Go up against someone like that and there was no upside to winning. Lose, and it was even worse.
And the real problem was, if you hurt him by accident, your future would be even more miserable.
The announcer started speaking into the mic, his voice practically trembling. "Up next, in the ring, Jason Grail versus… Simon Westeros!"
The arena erupted. A wave rolled through the crowd as people surged toward the ring.
A lot of them had been guessing earlier, thinking it might just be someone who looked similar.
But now.
It really was Simon Westeros.
Below the ring, James Packer felt the audience's rising agitation and leaned toward Patrick. "Maybe we should stop this. Simon and your sister are about to get married. If he gets hurt…"
Patrick wore the kind of expression that lived for chaos. He pointed casually at Neil Bennett and another bodyguard standing below the ring. "He's got people watching. And they already told the guy up there. Nothing's going to happen."
James Packer, however, felt more and more regret.
He really shouldn't have egged Simon on with Patrick. If anything happened, he was pretty sure his old man would break his legs.
He wanted to slip a few more instructions to the fighter and the referee, but he couldn't find an opening now.
In the ring.
The middle-aged referee did the routine check of the protective gear on Simon and Jason, then lowered his voice and asked, "Mr. Westeros, are you sure you want to do this?"
In this arena, aside from Patrick and the audience who loved a spectacle, nobody actually wanted Simon in the ring.
You couldn't joke like this.
Simon nodded again, then said to Jason Grail, who looked like he was still figuring out how to handle this, "Come at me. I can take a loss. If you beat me, I'll give you a hundred thousand dollars."
Jason Grail's eyes lit up immediately.
The referee took the moment Simon wasn't looking to give Jason a pointed look.
Easy. Money matters, but so does staying alive.
Jason caught the message and cooled a bit, starting to think about how to win against a billionaire without making him look too awful.
The bikini ring girl circled the ring with the sign held high. The gong sounded, and the match began.
Simon raised his hands, bent slightly at the waist, and settled into a practiced guard.
With so many memories inherited from so many people, Simon carried plenty of fighting technique in his head. Over the past few years he'd never slacked on training. And Simon had always known he was born with strength far beyond most people. He'd never pushed it to an absolute limit, but in the gym, a 200-kilogram bench press was effortless for him.
So facing a no-frills style of mixed fighting like this, he felt confident he wouldn't embarrass himself.
Once he set his guard, the entire first round, three full minutes, he kept moving, slipping and evading, barely throwing a punch.
Jason Grail could tell Simon was finding his rhythm. And from the fairly professional stance Simon carried, Jason realized the billionaire wasn't completely clueless, so he stopped being overly timid and patiently circled with him.
In the second round, Simon finally started testing his strikes. With the promised hundred thousand on his mind, Jason started countering as well.
But the exchange still wasn't especially fierce.
To outsiders, it was all just noise and motion.
When the third round began, Simon still dodged more than he attacked, and Jason still looked like he was "playing" with a VIP. Booing started to rise from the crowd.
They hadn't come to watch a fixed match.
But Jason, the one actually in there, was getting more and more shocked. Without realizing it, he was already using over seventy percent of his ability, yet his opponent still looked relaxed.
And.
He hadn't landed many clean hits, but when Simon Westeros did land, it hurt like hell.
A standard five-round bout quickly reached the fourth.
After giving ground for three rounds, the moment the fourth started, Jason launched a fierce attack with no restraint. Simon kept his guard, but he increased his counters too.
With the fight finally turning sharp, the booing died away. Everyone stared, waiting for one of them to go down.
In the ring, Simon blocked a combination that looked like it should have overwhelmed him. As Jason's center of gravity tipped, Simon suddenly drove power through his body and swung a tight hook.
Bang.
This wasn't a movie.
And it wasn't the sound of gloves in a film.
It was the sound of a man one-eighty tall and ninety kilos hitting the canvas like a sack of rags.
On and off the ring, the people who had been worrying Simon might be the one to end up like that froze. After a few stunned seconds, seeing Jason Grail sprawled on the mat without moving, two doctors stationed below rushed into the ring.
After a frantic check, one of them told Simon, "Mr. Westeros, he's unconscious."
"Just unconscious?"
"Possibly a concussion, but it shouldn't be serious."
The manager ordered staff to carry Jason out. Only then did the referee remember himself, stepping up to seize Simon's right hand and raise it. The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers at just the right moment, riding high with excitement. "The winner is… Simon Westeros!"
Applause broke out.
But Simon didn't leave the ring. Still hungry for more, he walked to the ropes and said to the arena manager, "Bring the next one. Tell them this: beat me and you get a hundred thousand. Lose and you get nothing."
When they realized Simon was going again, the crowd, which had felt nothing at first, erupted into even louder applause.
Then.
The second match.
The third.
The fourth.
…
When Simon dropped his tenth opponent, an Asian fighter from Thailand, with a brutal elbow strike, the arena was already overflowing, more people forcing their way in as the chants rose in a unified roar.
"Westeros! Westeros! Westeros!"
Ten matches in a row. Ten KOs in a row. Many fight fans were looking at Simon with something beyond admiration now.
Watching a super-rich man crush ten opponents back-to-back with their own eyes, most people felt that even as spectators, it was the kind of story they could brag about for years.
Simon himself couldn't possibly be unscathed. Neil Bennett, who'd been stationed by the ring the whole time to prevent any surprises, took one look at his boss's swelling cheek and the other marks on his body. The moment the referee called the result, Neil pushed the barrier open and climbed in. "Boss. You can't keep going."
Simon felt drained too. He glanced up at the electronic clock hanging in the arena. It was already past midnight. He nodded.
But he still didn't climb down right away.
Instead, he walked to the ropes, motioned at Patrick, who was staring like he'd forgotten how to breathe, then told James Packer beside him, "Go. Get him changed. We're having a match."
He knew his little brother-in-law had brought him here with bad intentions.
In truth, even if Patrick had pushed, if Simon didn't want to do it, Patrick could never have made it happen.
But a lesson still needed to be taught.
Patrick looked like he hadn't even heard him. His mouth opened as if to say, "Huh?"
Simon gestured at James again, and Patrick was promptly dragged toward the back.
Seeing that, Neil Bennett didn't try to stop it.
Simon was already covered in bruises. Even if nothing serious was wrong, once he got back he was definitely getting a scolding from Raymond Johnston.
As the instigator, the family's most useless young master deserved a proper beating.
James Packer personally hauled Patrick backstage. Not even a minute later, James came jogging back alone, face tight with suppressed laughter. "Pat bolted, Simon. Want me to chase him down?"
Simon chuckled and waved him off. Bracing one hand on the barrier, he put in a little force and hopped down from the ring.
As soon as the crowd realized there would be no more matches, they surged toward him, trying to get close.
Neil Bennett immediately signaled the staff. They formed up around Simon and shoved through the frenzy into the backstage area.
Simon dropped onto a sofa in the back and finally felt his strength drain out of him. From the front he could still faintly hear the chanting, "Simon," "Westeros," rolling like waves. He let a few bikini girls crowd in to help peel off his gloves and ankle guards. Exhaustion crashed over him. He closed his eyes and fell asleep on the spot.
Even with breaks in between, ten matches, nearly three hours of high-intensity fighting, had wrung the last drop of energy out of him.
After that, he couldn't remember much.
Dimly, he felt like he was taken to the Johnston family's private medical center in the city. There was a lot of fussing. Janet appeared too, maybe said a few things, then they went back to the estate.
And then.
A heavy black dream dragged on and on. Someone touched the bruises on his face, and he caught the hand without thinking, pulled it close, and held it against him.
It felt safe.
When he finally woke, he was in the bedroom he shared with Janet at the Johnston estate, the woman curled in his arms like a kitten.
He turned his head toward the darkened window. He couldn't tell if it was dawn or dusk.
Sensing his movement, Janet opened her eyes. Her beautiful gaze slid over, blinking a few times. Then she leaned in, small white teeth clamping down on his ear.
Pain flared, and Simon surrendered immediately. "Don't. If you bite it off, you're the one who'll be heartbroken."
"You bastard, I won't be heartbroken," Janet muttered. She gave a few more light bites, then let go, rubbing her smooth cheek against his. She pushed herself up to look him in the eyes. "Never do that again."
"Mm. I promise," Simon said. He kissed her lips, then asked, "What time is it?"
Janet didn't answer. She cradled his face and held his gaze. "You have to promise."
"I promise. Absolutely," Simon said solemnly. "Your brother talked me into it. I wanted to teach him a lesson at the end, but he ran."
"I don't care about your stupid nonsense," Janet said. She softened again, melting against him. "Dinner won't be for a while. Are you hungry? We could go out and eat."
"I'm hungry," Simon said. Something pressed against him. He felt around and found a button under him, tossed it aside, then continued, "But let's eat at home. Also, was the old man mad?"
Janet retrieved the button, lifted her hand, and flicked it into the crack between the nightstand and the wall, watching it vanish. Then she pressed herself to Simon's chest again. "No. But the media is going crazy today. The papers are full of 'Simon Westeros KOs ten opponents in a row.' There's video too. Even North America is reporting it. You're already a champion, huh? Feeling proud?"
Hearing the little bite in her tone, Simon said, "Aren't they supposed to ban filming in places like that?"
"Last night you went berserk in the ring, the whole of Melbourne got shaken. With that many people cramming in, how do you stop it. Too bad I only got to see you at the hospital after I rushed into the city."
Simon smiled. "I was supposed to talk to Tony today about Cersei Capital's latest settlement. Guess it'll have to wait till tomorrow. Blockbuster goes public on the 18th. I'll stay one more day, but I have to fly back to North America the day after. Time's tight."
Janet hummed, clearly not interested.
Sensing her mood, Simon stopped. He slid her light body gently aside and said, "All right. You lie down a bit longer. I'm getting up."
Janet wrapped her arms around his forearm until he sat up. At the end she scratched his back, then buried her face in the pillow, turning her head to watch him dress without blinking.