Vivian still wasn’t sure whether the two participants who claimed to be from the Pit were truly strong enough to make it to the end. That uncertainty wasn’t what bothered her most, it was the problem that came with it.
The problem... was Chad.
Not his attitude. Not his background. Not even his obnoxious, fake confidence.
But his money.
Chad was a high spender, one of the highest they had in attendance. Even among all the wealthy spectators tonight, Chad wagered more casually, more recklessly, and with more delusion than most of them combined. Vivian had seen how he bet in the past. She remembered every file she’d been given about him.
The Black Hounds, unlike other betting venues, did not impose a betting cap. That sort of cap protected lower-level gambling dens, but not them. Their business was built on the belief that there should never be limits.
And there was one reason for that.
Once too much money flowed to one side, once there was a risk of significant loss...
The fights would start to be rigged.
It wasn’t theory. It wasn’t rumor. It was how every large-scale illegal betting circuit in the world functioned.
They would pay fighters to lose.
They would reward certain people to suddenly "turn it around."
Those who pretended to be weak would suddenly become unstoppable, and those who were truly strong would mysteriously collapse.
But the Black Hounds had a problem,
Not everyone was in their pocket. Not every fighter would accept their offers. Not every fighter could be bought.
Some took pride in their strength. Some were too loyal. Some were just stupid enough to fight honestly regardless of the consequences.
And when that happened, things got messy.
Sure, the Black Hounds could "make them an offer they couldn’t refuse"... or they could remove opportunities from their lives entirely. Vivian had done both.
That was why, when Joe went to the bathroom...
She gave the order.
Her people were already planted in the venue. Fighting was their business, it wouldn’t be hard to make sure Joe simply couldn’t make it to his next match.
Inside the tiled bathroom, blood streaked across the white wall where Joe’s face had smashed against it. The impact had been brutal and sudden. His teeth had cut into the inside of his mouth, and part of his nose looked as if it had cracked sideways, blood pouring freely and dripping down the wall into the sink area below.
Before Joe could even react, hands grabbed the back of his neck and yanked.
He was flung across the bathroom floor and landed hard on the tiles. His body lay sprawled, face smeared red.
"Man, that was rough," one of the attackers muttered, shaking out his hand. "We were told to hurt him, not remodel his face. You couldn’t let the guy finish taking a leak? We could’ve just whacked his legs or hit his stomach a few times."
There were four men. All of them Black Hounds members. All of them were used to violence. And more importantly, they had all seen Joe fight. Which was why they didn’t fight fair.
"So what?" another laughed. "Let’s just make sure he really can’t get up again!"
The man stepped forward and kicked Joe square in the ribs.
A sickening crack echoed across the bathroom.
Joe groaned loudly, a sound halfway between pain and instinct.
And the others joined in.
Kick.
Kick.
Kick.
One stomp landed on the same spot again, and another rib cracked beneath the pressure.
"Alright, alright, that’s enough!" one of them finally said, putting his hand out. "We don’t want to kill him. We were told just to make sure he couldn’t join the fight, and I think we’ve done our job."
The group turned away, laughing among themselves. It had been easy, too easy. They thought Joe was strong, sure, but in their minds, they had proven something:
Anyone falls if you hit them first.
They moved toward the bathroom exit, one of them pushing the door open. Then, A voice. Low. Blood-thickened. Angry. "Do you really think that hurt?"
They turned. Joe was standing.
Blood covered half his face and soaked into his shirt. His eyes glowed with something different, not rage exactly. Something colder. Something worse.
"I’ve gone through a lot more pain than you losers could ever imagine," Joe said, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. "That was just a tickle."
The men froze. Their mistake... became clear.
Above them, another fight had just ended. The screen changed again, flashing with the names of the next match. And the opponent now shown...
Was Joe.
A ripple of chatter spread instantly across the rooftop.
This time, the crowd was interested. Joe had already won once, decisively, and there were plenty now willing to bet on him. Some people believed his first win was luck. Others thought they saw real skill there.
Either way, money moved.
As always, when the names were called, the fighters were expected to walk to the edge of the sunken arena. Once the betting timer ended, they would jump down.
But this time...A murmur filled the stands.
"Where is he?"
"Huh? Isn’t he back yet?"
"Still not here? Did he actually get lost going to the restroom?"
Wolf’s eyes narrowed.
"...That’s not right," he muttered.
He had seen Joe leave. He had seen how long he’d been gone. Something wasn’t adding up.
Meanwhile, Chad had already prepared to place his next massive bet, when he heard quiet laughter from beside him.
Vivian.
"Heh... I told you," she said, tone full of cruel amusement. "People always think they can control or cheat this game. But they forget something important."
Her eyes slid toward the fighting pit.
"You have to remember who you’re really dealing with."
Chad didn’t understand and while thinking about it, he heard noise.
Noise surged. People stood. Heads turned toward the staircase.
"Oh, there he is!" someone shouted. "Move out of the way! Make space!"
More voices followed,
"Wait... what is that?"
"What happened to him?"
"What’s going on?!"
Joe walked up the aisle.
Blood covered his shirt. His fists were red, coated in blood not just from his own wounds, but someone else’s.
There was no wobble in his step. No fear in his eyes. Only quiet anger. And he walked straight toward the pit.