After forcing the truth out of the host, Aron knew there were still several critical tasks left to accomplish, tasks that needed to be handled with precision before the entire venue descended into uncontrollable chaos. He understood now that Evon’s plan was far more serious than a simple disruption. Max’s money, their safety, and the balance of power in Notting Hill were all in danger.
But even with everything unraveling around them, a spark of opportunity flickered in Aron’s mind.
If handled correctly, this disaster could be turned into a victory for Max.
"I think you understand how serious I am," Aron said calmly, though his eyes were colder than steel. "But in case you’re still confused, allow me to make myself crystal clear."
He grabbed the host’s trembling hand and pinned it down on the table. Nearby, a half-filled wine bottle sat abandoned. Aron lifted it without hesitation, smashed it against the table’s edge, and held the jagged remains up to the light.
The host’s breathing turned frantic.
Before he could scream, Aron shoved a strip of torn fabric, ripped from one of the unconscious attackers, into the host’s mouth. Then Aron drove the broken bottle straight into the fleshy part of the host’s palm.
The muffled scream was immediate. The host writhed in agony, his body convulsing as blood dripped down the edge of the table.
"The more you lie," Aron whispered, leaning close enough for the host to feel his breath, "the more this will escalate. And this?" Aron dug the glass a fraction deeper, earning another muffled cry, "this is only a demonstration."
Aron pulled back slightly and wiped his bloody hand on the host’s suit jacket.
"You control the bets. You control the payouts. I need every cent earned tonight sent to a specific account. No stalling. No excuses. You know exactly how serious I am."
While Aron handled the host with ruthless efficiency, the reason no one noticed was simple, the spotlight, commentary, and collective roar of the venue were focused entirely on the cage. The main fight had become so intense and unpredictable that every spectator was enthralled.
Inside the ring, Na and Evon continued to clash, trading blows like two forces of nature. Despite being hit repeatedly, despite his ribs screaming and his vision blurring, Na refused to fall. His face was bloodied, his muscles trembling, yet he kept his guard up and pushed forward through the pain.
Unlike the earlier rounds, something had shifted in Na’s approach.
He was no longer searching for openings.
He was no longer thinking about timing or traps.
He wasn’t strategizing, he was surviving.
Instead of playing Evon’s game, Na simply attacked when he could and defended when he must. It wasn’t graceful, but it was effective. A man who no longer tried to out-think the trap couldn’t fall for it.
When Evon tried to bait him again, Na didn’t take the opening. And because of that, Na managed to land a heavy punch, one that should’ve rattled Evon hard.
But Evon’s exoskeleton-enhanced reflexes were relentless. Each time Na struck, a reinforced arm blocked the blow. Each time Na defended, Evon’s speed allowed him to adjust and respond instantly. The mechanical power woven beneath Evon’s jacket was carrying him through the fight.
Evon slid across the canvas again, but he popped up quickly, almost excited.
’This guy... he refuses to break,’ Evon thought. ’Every punch keeps coming. Every hit I land doesn’t stop him. Without the exoskeleton, I would’ve lost. He would’ve crushed me by now. But I do
Evon rushed in. Na swung, but Evon’s punch, accelerated by mechanical power, reached him first. It cracked into Na’s jaw with enough force to twist his head sharply. This time, Na stumbled backward, his legs shaking as though they didn’t fully belong to him.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
The fight was reaching its breaking point.
Sheri, her hands trembling against her face, couldn’t tear her eyes away.
She had bet the remainder of their money on this fight.
If Na lost, half their plan failed.
If Na got hurt badly, everything failed.
And right now, it looked like Na was moments away from collapsing.
Evon tilted his head with a look of triumph.
"I know what you’re thinking," he said, approaching the staggering Na. "How did you lose? How did someone like you, someone with power, fall like this? The answer’s simple."
He tapped the metallic frame hidden beneath his jacket.
"You’re a superhuman. But I’m not. Not naturally, anyway. And that’s the future. After tonight, the Gilt Rats are going to reshape everything about this world. You? You’ll just be one of the stepping stones we climb over."
Na’s knees buckled. His vision doubled. He could barely recognize the man in front of him. The only thing keeping him standing was sheer willpower.
Evon prepared to dash forward for the finishing blow,
, but he paused.
Because someone had stepped inside the cage.
Someone who wasn’t a contestant.
Evon frowned. "What do you think you’re doing? Non-participants aren’t allowed inside the ring. You’re going to mess up the entire match. All the bets, all the profits, "
"Is that so?" Aron’s voice cut through the arena like a knife.
He stood between Evon and Na, muscles tense, expression unreadable. The crowd gasped. The Black Hound fighters looked at one another in confusion.
Evon’s eyes narrowed. "You again? And why would you care about the rules of this match?"
Aron stepped forward, placing himself firmly between Na and danger.
"Because," Aron said, his tone deadly calm, "none of this matters anymore, not the bets, not the match, not your little performance."
He stared directly at Evon, eyes cold.
"Because I already know what you have planned."
Evon’s smile faltered for the first time.
Aron continued, voice rising just enough for the closest fighters to hear:
"And it doesn’t matter what rules you think apply here... because you were never planning to follow them in the first place."