Sheri had been given the exact same amount of capital to play with as Chad. Max had trusted her with it, fully. It was a huge risk on his part, and she knew it. If both Chad and Sheri failed at their respective events, Max wouldn’t just be down one hundred million. He would be down two hundred million... maybe even closer to three hundred million if he counted the money tied up in the event he himself was currently attending.
The thought made Sheri’s palms sweat.
Max was gambling with sums she could barely even comprehend, but she understood why he was doing it. He wasn’t just looking to make profit. He wasn’t simply chasing luck. He wanted something back, his fifty million that he had been forced to pay Jett. And more than that, he wanted compensation for everything his people had gone through.
That was why he was willing to play aggressively.
That was why he was putting trust in those who had managed to complete their Vows.
And that was why Sheri now found herself staring at the name that appeared on the screen:
Na.
The moment his name flashed across the display, Sheri made her first major bet, a total of five million.
Her hand shook as she pressed the screen.
"That’s a lot of money," she whispered, unable to stop herself. "I can’t believe there are people in here betting that amount."
Her voice was small, almost swallowed by the noise of the venue. Her mind flashed back, sharply, painfully.
"When our company was in dire need of help," she continued softly, "we needed ten million in total. And with everyone in this room, there’s a good chance that more than that is being bet right now... or at least across all the fights that are happening tonight."
"You might be somewhat right," Aron replied calmly, though his eyes were scanning everything, her expression, the room, the betting patterns. "But I doubt it. Yes, there are wealthy individuals here, some that bet in large amounts. But only a few have the wealth of the Stern family, the kind of wealth that lets someone throw down millions like spare change."
He leaned closer, voice lowering.
"And there are plenty of wealthy people who would never attend events like this in the first place. So honestly, with the money Max lent you... you might be the wealthiest person in this entire room."
Sheri blinked. The wealthiest? Her?
Aron nodded slightly.
"And that carries a lot of influence based on your bets. Which is why we need to be... careful."
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. But she remembered clearly, painfully, that the people running these events were the same ones who had kidnapped her once. And they had done that because of someone else’s grudge.
This was not a place to act carelessly.
Na entered the ring.
His opponent entered right after, a man with a nearly identical build. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Solid, grounded posture. It was obvious the organizers had matched the two based on appearance alone, assuming that similar builds meant similar levels of strength.
"Alright, alright," the man across from Na said casually, rolling his shoulders. "You’re a new one. Haven’t seen you before."
He smirked, puffing himself up.
"But you see, I join these events every month. I’ve got a lot of experience under my belt. Try not to be too nervous. And don’t make this end too quickly."
The bell rang.
The fight began.
The man lunged forward immediately, charging at Na with full confidence. His fists swung fast, hard, and Na lifted his arms to block, moving toward each punch, leaning into the hits instead of pulling away.
The crowd roared as the man’s fists slammed into Na’s forearms and shoulders.
Punch after punch.
Strike after strike.
The man was laughing. Actually laughing.
"Haha! This is great! This is great!" he shouted, thrilled by the impact of his own blows. "At least you’re not going down from my punches!"
He wound up for a powerful swing. Na’s feet shifted, quick, light, almost like he was hopping as both arms came up to brace the impact. The hit landed with a loud smack, and the audience cheered, believing Na had just barely survived it.
"Haha! You’re letting me show off a bit," the man taunted. "But you should know this, if you keep blocking, you’re never going to win. And eventually the people will get bored."
From the crowd’s perspective, Na was being overwhelmed. His opponent’s punches were fast and furious, and Na wasn’t counterattacking at all. To the average spectator, it looked like Na was losing. Badly.
But several of the more seasoned fighters present, people who understood the language of movement, were watching closely.
One of them was Evon, from the Gilt Rats.
Evon’s eyes narrowed.
He’s leaning into all the attacks with his full body weight.
He sees every punch before it comes.
He’s letting his opponent tire himself out.
Evon exhaled through his nose.
The winner was already decided a long time ago.
But that wasn’t the reason Na kept blocking.
He wasn’t simply conserving energy.
He was holding back.
As the fight dragged on, the man’s confidence began to crack. He could feel the fatigue setting in. Each punch took more effort. Each swing felt heavier in his arms. Nothing he did seemed to work.
Frustration twisted his face.
And that was when he made a dirty choice.
He aimed straight for Na’s privates, a blatant low blow.
Na reacted instantly.
He swung his arm downward, intercepting the punch with the bottom of his wrist, redirecting all the force. The man’s fist slammed into the canvas instead, his body weight jerking forward off-balance.
Na’s body moved at the exact same moment.
He twisted his hips, compressed his stance, and thrust a compact punch directly into the side of the man’s ribs.
A sharp crack echoed across the entire arena.
The man’s eyes widened. His breath vanished from his lungs. And his whole body collapsed, falling sideways onto the ground.
Silence washed through the room.
Then whispers.
Shock.
Na stood still for a moment, lowering his arm, letting out a slow breath through his nose.
This is what I was worried about... he thought.
I was trying to hold back.