Sheri couldn’t stop the relieved smile that spread across her face when the numbers flashed on her screen. Another win. Another chunk of money secured. Another step closer to helping Max, whether she truly understood the scale of the winnings or not.
Even if she had no idea how much her bets were really affecting the Black Hounds, seeing those green numbers every round made her chest warm.
It felt good, really good, to finally be useful.
"Na could really keep going," Sheri breathed out, leaning forward. "He might actually win this whole thing."
"That isn’t our goal," Aron replied calmly, eyes never leaving the arena. "And the last thing we want is to draw too much attention."
He lowered his voice, tone shifting into the serious one he used whenever he slipped into strategist mode.
"We already knew Na was the most likely to win his first match," he explained. "If this was only about profit, we could’ve dumped everything on him at the start and left immediately."
Sheri blinked. "Then why didn’t we?"
"Because they would never let us leave," Aron said simply. "Not after pocketing that much money on the very first fight. Even now, with how we’ve been spacing things out, we’re winning far more than they’d ever be comfortable with."
He glanced around the venue, scanning faces the way a trained predator studies a pack.
"The Black Hounds only care about the venue’s total profit. Maybe they’re slightly in the red right now. Maybe they’re breaking even because of the other guests’ losses. But from their perspective, we’re
Sheri swallowed hard. She hadn’t realized how delicate the balance was.
Aron’s methodical betting strategy wasn’t just about winning, it was about managing how they were seen .
Appearing too lucky was dangerous. Appearing too skilled was worse. The only safe path was looking like normal gamblers who occasionally got lucky.
Not predators.
Not thieves.
Not threats.
A few seats away, Na returned from the ring and dropped heavily into his usual chair. For the first time since his vow awakening, he didn’t mask the unsettled look in his eyes. He could feel people staring, other fighters, organizers, and spectators alike.
This isn’t good, Na thought. I really can’t control myself... not enough. If this keeps happening, what then? What happens if the group learns the truth? What happens if the wrong people figure out I’ve become... superhuman?
Rumors lingered at the edge of his memories. Whispers about "invitations" extended to those who reached the level of monsters, beings the underworld considered too valuable or too dangerous to leave alone.
Would they come for him? Would the invitation be an honor... or a threat?
His stomach twisted.
The event moved on, more fights playing out while Aron continued scanning the venue and Sheri followed his instructions diligently. And then, the screens shifted once again.
It was Evon’s turn.
The cheers that erupted were loud enough to vibrate the table under Sheri’s hands. Evon had become one of the crowd’s early favorites. Taking down a heavy hitter like Slob had made him stand out immediately, and now spectators were eager to see if it was a fluke, or if they were watching the rise of a new underground star.
Evon stepped into the cage with the same calm expression as before. The leather jacket he wore still looked crisp, which only added to the mystique surrounding him. No one suspected the truth behind the clothing, not yet.
His opponent this time was vastly different.
A bald veteran with deep cuts scarring his hands and face. Shaved eyebrows. Eyes sharp enough to cut through steel. Unlike Slob, this man radiated experience and killing intent.
Sheri shuddered the moment she saw him. Even without knowing his record, she could feel that this man had hurt people. A lot of people.
The fighters approached one another carefully, both raising their guards, their steps slow and precise.
The moment they entered striking distance,
The veteran launched forward, fists snapping out in rapid flurries.
These weren’t normal punches. They weren’t even like boxing strikes. They came from odd angles, targeting openings rather than striking straight. Evon’s reactions were slightly delayed compared to the sheer speed of the veteran’s attacks, yet his arms moved with frightening precision.
Every punch was knocked off-course.
Every kick was pushed aside.
Every strike lost its power the moment Evon’s palm or forearm touched it.
Sheri’s eyes widened.
Aron leaned forward.
Even Na, watching from his seat, tensed.
Inside Evon’s mind, gears were turning.
So the exoskeleton does this too... Not just strength. It boosts my speed as well.
He could feel each impact through the suit, pressure waves traveling through the material, but at the last second, the exoskeleton added a burst of support, reinforcing his limbs and letting him deflect the blows.
If this is only the arm portion... If someone wore the full suit... No, it’s better not to think about that.
Evon wasn’t here tonight to win. He was here to test the Gilt Rats’ newest creation. And after this exchange, the test was complete.
Time to finish the fight.
The veteran threw another angular punch. Evon’s hand shot out, not to parry this time, but to seize the fist entirely. He twisted and shoved downward, dragging the man off balance. Then he drove his own fist, a controlled, restrained strike, upward into the man’s jaw.
Sheri winced at the crack.
The veteran’s body stiffened, then collapsed to the mat.
Evon breathed out, relieved he’d managed to hold back enough not to obliterate the man’s skull. He suspected the jaw was dislocated, maybe slightly fractured, but it was far less devastating than Slob’s shattered jaw.
The crowd erupted.
"Two sure winners!" a fighter shouted from behind the railings. "We can just keep betting on these two!"
Excitement swelled through the venue. Na and Evon had secured decisive, impressive victories. Sooner or later, the fighters would run out of opponents, and if the bracket continued as usual,
Na and Evon would have to fight each other .