Almost no one in the audience had placed a bet against Na. His opponent looked fragile, far too thin, almost sickly, like someone who had wandered into the wrong place rather than a trained fighter. The visual contrast alone was enough to convince even inexperienced spectators that Na would win without effort. In underground venues like this, appearances often guided the betting decisions far more than logic.
What made the situation more unusual was that this was the first match of the night for the newcomer. Na, on the other hand, had already been in two matches. The host had publicly explained that the fight was a "fair matchup" because Na was likely tired from his earlier bouts, whereas the newcomer was fresh. It served as a convenient justification, just plausible enough to appease casual observers, while everyone else simply accepted it because they wanted the betting to continue.
Of course, this reasoning was flimsy at best. No one expected anyone to win two fights as effortlessly as Na had. The assumption behind the match scheduling had been that one of his earlier opponents would take him out or at least wear him down. Instead, Na had breezed through both fights, making the explanation look increasingly questionable.
But in the end, none of that mattered. In these events, people complained about rigged fights all the time, whether the matches actually were rigged or not. If the results went against their bets, they shouted about cheating. If the results favored them, they became quiet. That was the cynical but simple truth. The organizers understood it well: people always came back. That was all that mattered.
Rigging was an art that required balance. Too many obvious setups, and suspicion spread. Too few, and the hosts missed easy financial opportunities. Every match was a calculation of risk versus gain. And now, the venue had seen a massive opportunity.
Just as the host prepared to announce the next match, he checked the betting tablet automatically, only for his expression to twist sharply into shock.
"What the heck?" he shouted. "Someone bet millions against him! Who would be such an idiot to do something like that?"
He scrolled rapidly, checking the name.
A new guest. Someone from the Curts family. And their betting history showed consistency, they had been making smart bets all night.
The host pressed a hand to his forehead in frustration.
"Well... there goes the earnings. If the favorite loses, we’ll still make a profit, but only a small margin. Hardly worth all this."
Meanwhile, inside the ring, Na stood across from his frail opponent, who raised both hands in a basic defensive stance. When the signal was given, the fight began.
Na charged forward, and the smaller man did the same, though his steps were quicker and lighter. Na deliberately altered his fighting style. Instead of his usual compact punches, fast, tight, and controlled, he swung wide and sloppy. Anyone watching could see exactly where each punch was going to land. His opponent was able to duck under them easily and counter with a punch to Na’s stomach.
Na exaggerated his response, stepping back slightly and tightening his abs to make it appear the hit had some force behind it. In reality, the punch barely registered.
His punches are weak, Na thought. But at least he has some experience. He can dodge well enough. That helps.
With that in mind, Na continued the pattern. Wide swings. Obvious motions. A consistent rhythm his opponent could predict. The audience murmured in surprise.
"Whoa, that little guy is better than we thought! He’s not as fast as the other fighters, but it’s almost like he can read The Soldier’s moves!"
The Soldier, that was the nickname they had assigned Na earlier. It suited his composed style, his posture, and his disciplined movements. It made him seem like a professional, which only heightened the drama of the fight.
"I don’t know..." another spectator muttered nervously. "If he keeps swinging like that, he’s going to get tired. Are we about to see an upset?"
"There better not be an upset," someone else snapped. "I bet everything on The Soldier. He has to win!"
Na ignored the voices. His real challenge now was figuring out how to lose without raising suspicion. His opponent’s hits were far too soft to knock him down naturally, so he had to create the illusion through exhaustion and missteps, subtle enough that casual fans would believe it.
He widened his movements even more, letting his breathing grow heavier. He exaggerated each inhale, letting his shoulders sag just a little. Sweat already covered his skin from earlier fights, so it worked in his favor.
From the other side of the ring, his opponent watched him intently.
This is it, the man thought. This is the moment. He’s tired. I can finish this!
He rushed in eagerly.
Just as before, Na threw another wide punch. His opponent ducked under it and prepared to counter, just as he had been doing the whole time. But now, the newcomer had an even bolder idea.
If I take the punch head-on, he thought, it’ll be dramatic. The crowd will erupt. Then I’ll land my own punch and end the fight in spectacular fashion. A perfect finish.
But the man did not truly understand the power behind Na’s strikes, even weakened and slowed. He underestimated the force drastically.
When Na’s fist connected cleanly with the man’s side, the entire outcome shifted in an instant.
The newcomer’s eyes went blank. His body dropped as though someone had severed all the strings holding him upright. He crumpled to the canvas, limp and unmoving, with no attempt to rise.
Na froze.
What the heck just happened? he thought, stunned. He dodged every punch before, did he take that one deliberately? Why would he do something so reckless? Why now?
A loud announcement echoed from the host:
"It looks like we have a winner, the Soldier!"
*****
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