Max hated to admit it, but Darius was right. The man wasn’t just a leader; he was a monster shaped by a level of combat that Max hadn’t expected to encounter so soon.
During the frantic exchanges of the last few minutes, Max had managed to form a theory. He’d predicted that the punches and the sudden, lethal-looking attacks being thrown his way were nothing more than phantom hits. But knowing they were fake didn’t make them any less dangerous. They were fundamentally different from a fighter simply feinting a jab to set up a hook, or a strategist setting a trap to lure an opponent into a specific corner of the ring.
This was something deeper. It was as if Darius was projecting his pure killing intent with such force that an illusion of the strike actually manifested in Max’s mind. Max was certain that to an outside observer, to the Black Hound grunts or the terrified onlookers, Darius looked like he was barely moving. They wouldn’t see the blurring fists or the lethal knees. It was a private war, existing only in the psyche of the person being targeted.
The problem was that as much as Max told himself to ignore the hits, his primal instincts refused to listen. He couldn’t differentiate the real from the fake. Even when he guessed correctly and held his ground, his body would still flinch or lean slightly away from the illusory attack. That micro-second of hesitation was all Darius needed to land a genuine, bone-shattering blow.
He’s one of the strongest opponents I’ve ever faced, Max thought, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He isn’t particularly fast, and he isn’t using some kind of superhuman strength. Aside from this... projection... there’s nothing standing out. Is this just pure experience, or something else?
Max started to dig through the memories of his previous life. When he had reached the Syndicate level in the past, he remembered encountering men who emitted a pressure quite similar to what he was feeling now. Even when those men were sitting perfectly still, the air around them felt suffocating. Their eyes didn’t just look at you; they told you exactly how they were going to dismantle you.
Back then, just standing in the same room as those high-level bosses would cause Max to have flashes, visions of his own defeat before a finger was even lifted. But he had never felt that level of "intent" from a group at this stage of development. The Black Hounds were supposed to be an organized gang, not a global Syndicate.
It’s possible that Darius is a cut above the rest, Max realized. He’s already tapping into the ’Aura’ that only top-tier Syndicate fighters possess.
Max was sure that some of the heavy hitters in the White Tigers could do the same, but they had been his allies; their killing intent had never been weaponized against him. This wasn’t a superpower like the ones in the stories; it was an invisible aura born from a life spent in the pits of violence.
Determined to break the rhythm, Max charged in again. He tried to rely on his superior speed, blurring his movements to overwhelm Darius’s senses. He threw a flurry of strikes, some were blocked, some hit the heavy leather of Darius’s coat, but then it happened again. Max’s vision was suddenly filled with a massive fist aimed directly at his nose.
He flinched. The reaction was involuntary. That split-second delay caused his follow-up kick to lose all its momentum. Darius didn’t even move his head; he simply caught Max’s leg under his arm and delivered a brutal, driving kick directly into Max’s chest.
Max hit the floor hard, skidding back across the polished wood.
This isn’t working. Even with the boost I gained from the previous fights, it’s not enough, Max thought, his chest burning with every breath. My Vow makes me stronger based on my wealth, but I’ve already collected the money from the other events. I can’t just expect to suddenly grow stronger in the middle of a fight without a new influx of cash.
In the past, Max had a workaround for these moments of stagnation. He would have Aron place a high-stakes bet on his behalf. Under the logic of his Vow, a successful gamble was a sudden increase in net worth, which translated into an immediate physical surge.
But Aron was currently locked in his own desperate struggle against the Black Hound elites. There was only one other person who knew the specific rituals of Max’s Vow and had access to the accounts: Warma.
I have no choice. If I don’t find a way to get stronger right now, I’m going to die on this ship.
Max glanced to his side. He wasn’t deluded about the state of the room. Although Darno and Stephen were holding their own, Jett was a relentless engine of destruction. It was only a matter of time before the giant overwhelmed them. If Max didn’t finish Darius soon, he’d be facing both of them at once.
Max reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
"What is that?" Darius said, letting out a short, mocking chuckle. "Are you going to call for help? Look around you, boy. We are in the middle of the ocean. It will be another three hours before this vessel nears the shore. No one is coming to save you."
Max ignored him. The call connected, and he spoke two words into the receiver.
"Red. Everything."
A 10-million-dollar bet. If it landed, his wealth would nearly double in an instant. The surge of power from the Vow would be enough to shatter Darius’s phantom aura and end this fight in a single strike. He just needed the God of Chance to smile on him one more time.
Seconds felt like hours. Max stood his ground, staring at Darius, waiting for the heat to flood his veins. He waited for the strength to return to his tired limbs.
Then, the phone crackled.
"Max..." Warma’s voice was hollow, filled with a despair that chilled Max to the bone. "It landed on Black."