The fight between Na and Evon had crossed the point of being merely intense. It was turning into something brutal, slowly, painfully one-sided. Even the spectators, who knew nothing about superhuman traits or underground technology, were beginning to realize the imbalance.
Na was fighting with everything he had. His fists were heavy, his strikes compact and precise, and he wasn’t holding back anymore. Every punch he threw now carried the full weight of his strength. Yet every time he made contact, the impact was knocked aside as if he were hitting solid steel rather than flesh.
Evon had fully activated the strength of the exoskeleton beneath his jacket. With its support, even Na’s most powerful blows were smothered into nothing. The advantage was overwhelming. It wasn’t about speed anymore. It wasn’t about timing, experience, or technique. It was simply impossible for Na to overpower Evon while that suit was active.
And the worst part, the part Na felt sinking into his bones, was that Evon knew it.
Evon began pulling out every trick he had, setting up traps one after another. Na kept falling for them. Even when he recognized the possibility of a trap, another question immediately twisted in his mind: What if it isn’t? What if this one is real? What if he finally found an opening?
It was a mental battle as much as a physical one. Evon’s fighting style exploited a fighter’s instincts, and Na’s instincts were honed through years of training. He had to act when he saw openings. That was what he had been taught his whole life. Now those instincts were working against him.
Worse, Evon wasn’t just setting single traps, he was layering them. Trap inside of trap. A feint inside of a feint. A fake mistake that lured Na into a real mistake. By the time Na realized it, the punishment had already come.
His body shook with every blow.
And these weren’t simple strikes anymore. With the exoskeleton enhancing Evon’s attacks, each punch carried force far beyond human limits. Even when Na blocked from the side, the impact shuddered through his arms, bruising the hardened muscle beneath his skin.
’This... this can’t be right,’ Na thought as his vision blurred from another hit. ’Does he have some way to harden his bones? Some kind of reinforcement? The Gilt Rats are strong, but this... this isn’t normal.’
Evon leaped forward, planting his hand on Na’s back to force him downward. Then, using the momentum of his entire body, he smashed a brutal uppercut right into Na’s stomach. The blow knocked the air out of him completely. Pain shot through his abdomen, sharp and deep, and for the first time Na wondered whether something inside him had ruptured.
He staggered backward, his breath caught in his throat.
"Sheri," Aron said suddenly, his voice tense. "Stay close to me. We need to figure out what’s going on here."
Sheri didn’t need to be told twice. The moment Aron stood, she moved in step behind him, refusing to let him out of her sight. The moment she’d heard that the Black Hounds weren’t letting anyone leave the venue, her stomach had turned to ice. Memories she’d tried hard to bury began clawing their way to the surface.
She wasn’t going to let that happen again.
Eyes followed them immediately. Staff, guards, every one of them seemed to flick their attention toward Aron and Sheri as the two moved through the crowd. But Aron didn’t head for the exits. He didn’t even move toward the corridors he’d checked earlier.
Instead, he made a direct line toward the host’s elevated seating area.
Sheri’s voice trembled as she whispered, "Aron... if we cause a scene, will our money be okay? What if they freeze everything?"
"Right now, I’m not convinced our money is safe at all," Aron replied sharply. "If the venue goes into lockdown because of whatever’s happening, our winnings may already be gone. And besides, if we have to fight our way out of here and tear this whole place apart, then afterward we can force the host to send the money. The one person who can transfer it sits right over there."
He nodded toward the masked host.
That was when the Black Hound members stepped into Aron’s path.
They didn’t draw weapons, but their posture said everything. They were ordered to stop anyone approaching the host.
And Aron wasn’t having it.
The first guard opened his mouth to speak, but he never got the chance to finish a single word.
Aron lunged forward, his hand snapping to the back of the guard’s neck. With a vicious jerk, he yanked the man’s head downward and slammed his face into Aron’s knee, once, twice, before flinging the limp body aside.
The second guard reacted quickly, throwing a punch, but Aron caught the arm mid-swing. With a swift upward knock, he broke the man’s balance, drove two hard blows into his stomach, and yanked him forward to smash an elbow into his face. The man collapsed with a groan.
Now nothing stood between Aron and the host.
Aron stepped forward, his aura shifting from calculated calm to controlled threat. The host, though masked, stiffened in his seat. Even from a distance, Sheri could feel the tension in the air thickening.
"I have a few questions," Aron said, his voice low enough not to draw the crowd’s attention but firm enough to cut through any noise. "First, why are you refusing to let anyone leave this venue?"
The host didn’t answer.
Aron took one more step.
"And let me be clear," he said. "If you don’t answer me the second time I ask, you’re going to go through a lot of pain."
***
*****
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