Na genuinely began to question the intelligence of the people running this event. They had already attempted this same tactic on Evon, someone far stronger, more dangerous, and clearly beyond their ability to control, and now they were trying the exact same approach on him. It made no sense. How had a gang that held such a prominent position in Nottingham Hill become so careless, so unaware, so incapable of reading the people they were dealing with?
After reflecting on it for a moment, Na settled on the most logical explanation: the individuals confronting him were simply lower-level members of the Black Hounds. They were not the leaders. They were not the decision-makers. They were the disposable workers, the ones who followed orders without thinking, the ones who never rose higher because they lacked the ability for critical judgment. With that in mind, it was no surprise they behaved recklessly, they were used to forcing outcomes through numbers rather than intelligence.
With these thoughts running through his mind, Na chose not to resist and followed the waiters as they escorted him. He allowed them to lead him through several narrow hallways that branched off from the main arena, eventually arriving at a completely different location from the storage area Evon had been brought to.
The back kitchen.
This room was vast, filled with stainless steel counters, racks of ingredients, and industrial-sized ovens. But tonight, the chefs standing inside were not preparing food. They stood rigidly at the edges of the space, gripping sharp kitchen tools, large knives, cleavers, and carving instruments, like improvised weapons. Their posture made it clear they were acting as temporary guards.
Na examined them casually.
There are a lot of them, he thought, noting the number of bodies surrounding him. If I really wanted to escape by force, I’d have to pick up one of these counters and use it as a shield or a battering ram. My old self wouldn’t have even considered that an option.
His combat experience was extensive, and he knew how to deal with blades and ambushes, but he had always relied on technique, timing, and discipline. Facing several armed opponents at once had never been easy. In the past, it had been nearly impossible. But now, after unlocking his super strength, he had a different baseline entirely. Still, relying on that strength openly was dangerous. He had worked tirelessly to control it, to avoid exposing it, and here, surrounded by so many people, was the exact sort of situation he needed to manage carefully.
The host entered the room shortly after Na, straightening his suit jacket and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His expression was tense, agitated, and his eyes darted around the room constantly, almost as if he feared someone or something might emerge unexpectedly. Whatever Evon had done to him earlier had clearly rattled him deeply.
"I wanted to speak with you," the host began, lowering his voice slightly as he approached, "because you’ve become an unexpected variable in our betting ring tonight."
His tone was sharp and laced with irritation. Na could tell that whatever confidence the host once had was now replaced with frustration, frustration likely stemming from his earlier encounter with Evon.
"Because of that," the host continued, "there are several guests who are quite favorable toward placing bets on you. In your next fight, we will have you face an opponent who looks like someone you would beat easily. And what we want from you... is for you to take the loss on the chin."
He smiled, tapping his fingers together.
"If you do that, there will be something special in it for you. A reward. A bonus, call it what you will. So, what do you say?"
The offer was nearly identical to what they had presented Evon. It had all the same ingredients: manipulation, pressure, and the promise of reward. But unlike Evon, Na had a reputation as a calm and obedient fighter. The host expected resistance at first, some macho speech about pride or honor, followed by heavy-handed intimidation from the surrounding chefs.
Instead, Na answered immediately.
"Okay," he said, smiling faintly. "That sounds like a good deal."
The host blinked.
"Haha, wrong decision!" he yelled, turning sharply as if preparing to give a signal. But then he stopped mid-motion. "Wait... what? You accept? Just like that?"
"You don’t think there’s anything strange about it?" the host asked again, confused. "You don’t want to fight your way to the top? You don’t care about winning?"
Na shrugged.
"You think I’m doing this because I enjoy fighting?" he replied. "I’m here to make money. That’s all. You’re saying you’ll pay me well, and all I have to do is lose? That’s the easiest job I’ve ever been offered."
He shrugged once more, as if the entire proposition was trivial.
"I have no fighting pride. This is work. Money is all that matters."
The host stared, stunned. He had been prepared for conflict, prepared to assert dominance the same way he had attempted with Evon. But Na had taken all the excitement out of the moment. Instead of confrontation, he had simply agreed, and the host found himself oddly disappointed.
"I’ll put on a good show," Na added before turning toward the exit. He raised a thumbs-up as he walked away, casual, almost playful. The host had not given him permission to leave yet, but Na had taken the moment anyway, claiming it as his own.
"You see that?" the host muttered, straightening his suit as if trying to restore some of his dignity. "That’s how you handle these people. That’s how you get things done. If any of you want to be in my position one day, take note."
When Na returned to the arena floor, he immediately found Sheri and Aron in the crowd and made direct eye contact. Then, stretching his arms above his head, he rotated his shoulders as he walked back to his seat.
Aron saw the gesture and nodded grimly.
"That’s the cue," Aron said quietly. "They’ve told him to take a dive. So in the next fight, place your bet on the other guy."
A short time later, the next match was announced: Na versus a small, frail man who looked barely older than a teenager. The size difference made it obvious which way the crowd expected the fight to go.
Sheri placed the bet accordingly, putting a significant amount on Na losing the match, although it wasn’t everything they had left. She looked uneasy.
"I... I hope everything goes right," she whispered. "After this match, we can leave, right?"
Aron didn’t answer immediately. His instincts were prickling.
Something about how smoothly everything was unfolding felt wrong.
Far too smooth.
Which meant something devastating was waiting just beneath the surface.