Evon’s victory looked extraordinary, almost unbelievable, to anyone watching for the first time. The difference in size between him and Slob made the outcome feel like something out of a comic book. But for the regular attendees of the Black Hounds’ underground events, surprising mismatches weren’t new. Smaller or seemingly weaker fighters winning wasn’t unheard of. The real issue tonight wasn’t who won, but how the fight ended and the style in which it happened.
As Slob was lifted off the arena floor, medics rushed in with practiced speed. Sheri caught a glimpse of their tense expressions as they knelt around him, checking his jaw and trying to assess the damage.
One of the doctors raised his voice, speaking loudly so the others could hear over the crowd’s murmur.
"He needs to be taken to the emergency room immediately. His jaw is completely shattered. If they don’t handle this right away, he might lose the ability to speak permanently."
Even with such a severe diagnosis, none of the staff looked particularly sympathetic. Their hands moved efficiently, but there was no urgency born of compassion, only professionalism. In this place, fighters like Slob weren’t seen as victims. They were veterans of these brutal matches who had earned their reputations by being merciless. Slob himself had left countless opponents injured over the years. Bones broken. Teeth knocked out. Some fighters ended up far worse than he was now.
So while the spectators reacted to Evon’s power with shock, nobody mourned for Slob. He had simply tasted the same brutality he’d dished out countless times.
Sheri kept her eyes lowered. She didn’t like the violence, but she forced herself to remain still. Aron had told her countless times already, if she looked scared, disgusted, or too emotional, it would attract the wrong attention. These weren’t people she could afford to provoke.
Fights continued to roll out one after another. Aron leaned closer each time a new pair of faces popped up on the screen, his voice low and steady as he shared his insights.
He wasn’t picking winners because he had some mystical intuition or advanced calculation based on posture and footwork. What he did was far more practical, and far more dangerous. Aron had learned to read the subtle signals from the staff. A slight nod toward the ring. A hand gesture made too casually. A tiny flash of light beneath a sleeve. Quiet cues passed between those working behind the scenes to indicate who the organizers wanted to win each match.
That alone wasn’t enough to guarantee victory, though.
The most dangerous variable was Sheri’s own bets.
No matter how subtle the staff’s signals were, large sums of money could shift everything. Aron had seen it already, if Sheri bet too much on a certain fighter, the organizers would quickly pivot. They would change the outcome mid-match, using whatever methods necessary, all to protect their profits.
Sheri’s success tonight depended on perfectly balancing her wagers. Too small, and she wouldn’t have any justification for suddenly betting big on Na. Too large, and she’d shift the odds and ruin their whole plan. Aron analyzed the average amounts other guests were betting and compared them to Sheri’s. He timed her wagers to avoid tipping the scales and chose fights where her bets wouldn’t draw scrutiny.
By this point in the night, they were winning consistently. The money piled up faster than Sheri expected, even though the pressure made each bet feel like a blade hanging above her head.
Then the screens changed again.
Na was up next.
Aron straightened slightly in his chair. Sheri took a deep breath. Because her bets had gradually increased throughout the event, wagering big amounts no longer felt suspicious. The organizers expected the bets to grow larger as people chased excitement or tried to win back earlier losses.
Aron made sure the timing matched the behavior of real gamblers. Every detail mattered.
All that was left was to let Na handle the rest.
Tonight, Na’s opponent differed greatly from his previous one. Instead of a bulky brute like Slob, the next fighter was small, fast, and incredibly nimble. Every step the man took was light, quick, and measured. He darted around Na like a flicker of wind.
Na raised his guard, absorbing several quick strikes. His training in close-quarters combat showed through with each movement. He anticipated the direction of most attacks and deflected them just enough to avoid serious impact. Even so, it was clear that landing a hit on this opponent would be difficult.
The smaller man danced backward every time Na swung. Na tightened his fist, driving forward with the compact blows he was known for, powerful, short-range hits designed to deliver maximum force in minimal distance. But every time he punched, the fighter bounced away, avoiding contact by a hair.
Frustration flickered across Na’s face. The opponent’s style was a direct counter to his own.
Then the man rushed forward again, preparing for another strike. Na shifted his stance, making it look as though he was going for a tight hook. Instead, he snatched the man’s wrist mid-motion.
He didn’t intend to use full strength. He didn’t want to hurt the man more than necessary. He only needed control.
But even while trying to hold back, Na misjudged it. His opponent’s feet lifted off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all. Na’s eyes widened. He instinctively twisted his body, attempting to pivot away so they wouldn’t collide.
As Na pulled back, the man’s momentum carried him through the air. His body crashed violently into the cage wall, hard enough that the entire structure rattled.
The crowd gasped at the sheer force of it.
The man slid down slowly until he hit the floor, unconscious. The match was over, quickly, decisively, and with no chance of recovery.
Across the venue, Evon’s eyes narrowed.
"That guy... he’s strong," Evon muttered. "Does he have some kind of exoskeleton machine as well?"
***
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