It had been a full day since Lucius and Seung Hoon officially decided to start their betting partnership. After two matches where Lucius had proven his analytical abilities with perfect predictions, Seung had finally been convinced. No more free analysis. Today, they would place their first real bet together.
The arena buzzed with its usual energy as fighters and executives filtered back in for the afternoon session. Three matches had already been fought and concluded—warm-ups, appetizers for what was coming.
Now the crowd was hungry for something more substantial.
Lucius sat in the fighter section with his eyes half-closed, head tilted back against the seat. To anyone watching, he appeared to be dozing off, exhausted from the constant stimulation of the tournament.
But his mind was anything but resting. He was contemplating, processing the information he'd gathered, the patterns he'd observed, the pieces slowly falling into place.
Beside him, Odd fidgeted in his seat, anxiety radiating from every movement. His eyes kept darting around the arena, scanning faces in the crowd, checking the executive sections, looking for anyone who might be watching them too closely. What if someone noticed their betting pattern? What if the organizers figured out what they were doing? This could lead to elimination—or worse. He'd heard too many stories about people who bent the rules here, stories that ended badly.
On Lucius's other side, Seung Hoon sat with barely contained excitement, now sure of Lucius's analytical skills. His credential card was already in his hand, fingers tapping it against his knee in a nervous rhythm. His mind was already calculating—just how much he could make off this kid. The possibilities seemed endless.
Seung reached over and tapped Lucius's shoulder. "Wake up, kid. The match is about to start."
Lucius didn't respond.
Seung tapped harder. "Hey. King."
Still nothing.
Odd leaned over. "Didn't get some shut-eye yesterday or what?"
Finally, Lucius stirred. One eye cracked open, then the other. He straightened slowly in his seat.
"Nah," he said, voice carrying a slight rasp. "Just a bit exhausted."
Seung's expression flickered with concern—concern for his investment. "Hope it doesn't affect your predictions though..."
Lucius just looked at him, expression flat and unreadable.
"Right, right," Seung said quickly. "Anyway, the fight's about to begin."
The arena lights shifted dramatically, and Jamal's voice exploded through the speakers with renewed energy. "WELCOME BACK, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! And we are BACK with match number FIVE of round one!"
The crowd's response was immediate and electric.
"That's right!" Haurang added, his measured voice somehow cutting through the noise. "Our fifth match features two very different fighters. This promises to be... intense."
The Jumbotron flickered to life, splitting into two panels with fighter information.
Left panel: A professional photograph of a man with predatory features and dead eyes. VIPER. 5'8". 165 lbs. RETURNING FIGHTER. PREVIOUS TOURNAMENT: QUARTERFINALS.
Right panel: Grainy security footage of something massive pacing in a reinforced cell, the image deliberately obscured but unmistakably inhuman. MONSTER. 7'0". 340 lbs. THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME.
"In the blue corner," Haurang announced with professional precision, "returning for his second tournament appearance after reaching the quarterfinals last year—standing at five feet eight inches, weighing one hundred sixty-five pounds—the assassin known only as VIPER!"
The blue-lit entrance opened, and Viper emerged.
He moved with the lethal grace of a predator, each step deliberate and controlled. Black combat pants, sleeveless compression shirt revealing arms decorated with scale-like tattoos that seemed to shimmer under the lights. His eyes—cold, calculating, empty—swept across the arena, already measuring distances, angles, potential threats.
The crowd gave appreciative noise. This was a professional. A killer.
Viper reached his starting position and stopped, arms loose at his sides, stance deceptively relaxed. His face remained expressionless, but there was hunger in those dead eyes. Hunger for victory. For money. For everything that came with it.
"And in the red corner..." Jamal's voice shifted, taking on something darker. "Well folks, this one needs no introduction. You know what's coming. You know what he is. Ladies and gentlemen—MONSTER!"
The red entrance didn't open normally. Instead, a heavy mechanical grinding echoed through the arena as a reinforced cargo elevator began rising from beneath the floor. The sound of rattling chains and something roaring joined the mechanical noise, sending shivers through the crowd.
As the elevator locked into place with a resounding clang, everyone got their first clear look.
Monster was barely human anymore. Seven feet of twisted, overdeveloped muscle and concentrated rage. His body was a roadmap of scars—surgical marks, burn tissue, wounds that had healed wrong or not at all. His face had been deformed beyond recognition: jaw extended and reinforced with metal implants, teeth filed or grown into jagged fangs, eyes that held no intelligence, no humanity. Just base instinct. Hunger. Violence.
He was restrained in a custom titanium-weave straightjacket, the kind designed to contain the most dangerous NovaBreeds. Heavy industrial chains wrapped his torso, arms, legs. Around his neck, a bulky control collar bristled with blinking red lights and injection ports.
Six guards flanked the elevator, all carrying high-voltage shock prods and maintaining maximum distance from their cargo. Even with all the restraints, they looked terrified.
Monster strained against the bindings, muscles bulging, chains groaning under impossible pressure. That inhuman sound kept coming from his throat—something between a roar and a growl that made people's instincts scream danger.
"Now for our betting protocols," Haurang explained. "Monster is under executive control via the restraint collar. All restraints will be released at match start. Should Monster become unmanageable, the security guard is authorized to use heavy tranquilizers."
"Translation!" Jamal cut in with dark humor. "If the beast tries to eat anyone important, we'll put him down! Probably!"
Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Executives and authorized bettors!" Haurang called. "Betting is officially OPEN! Sixty seconds!"
Throughout the executive sections, tablets activated. Credential cards emerged.
Seung looked at Lucius, waiting.
"Monster wins," Lucius said quietly, his analysis already complete. Through his hydro-sensing, he'd read both fighters completely. Viper's controlled biology, professional conditioning. And Monster—chaos held together by unnatural regeneration. The poison wouldn't be enough. "Bet accordingly."
Seung's hand trembled slightly as he activated his tablet. The odds appeared: VIPER 3:1. MONSTER 1:2.
He placed a substantial bet. Enough to hurt if wrong. Enough to change everything if right.
BET PLACED: MONSTER.
The timer counted down as more bets flooded in.
:05
:04
:03
:02
:01
"BETTING CLOSED!" Jamal announced. "No backing out now!"
In the executive section, one man sat forward with particular interest. Michael "Mike" Ross—Executive Six—flanked by two uncomfortable-looking assistants. A wide smile stretched across his face as he pulled out a small remote control, fingers caressing it like a favorite toy.
"Fighters ready!" Haurang called.
In the arena, Viper dropped into his stance—weight balanced, hands ready, eyes calculating. Professional. Controlled.
Monster strained against every restraint, that terrible sound building.
"BEGIN!"
Mike pressed the button.
The collar emitted a high-pitched beep. Red lights shifted to green. The device split apart and clattered to the sand.
For one long moment, Monster stood perfectly still. His head tilted up toward the ceiling, chains still wrapped around him, straightjacket still restraining his arms.
The silence was worse than the roaring had been.
Then Monster's head tilted down, slowly, deliberately.
His eyes locked onto a target.
Not Viper.
Mike Ross.
Pure hatred erupted from Monster's throat—a roar that spoke of agony and rage and desperate fury at the man who owned him, controlled him, brought him here again and again to kill and be hurt and never allowed to truly die.
The straightjacket exploded apart, titanium weave shredding like tissue. Chains snapped—link by link, each break like a gunshot.
Monster launched himself at the executive section.
Fifteen feet crossed in a single bound, clawed hands reaching, that roar never stopping—
CRACK!
He hit the electromagnetic barrier at full force. The field flared brilliant blue. The impact sent him flying backward through the air, body tumbling, crashing into the sand twenty feet away with a boom that shook the arena.
Mike never moved. Never flinched. His smile widened. "See?" he said to his assistants. "The beast knows who his master is."
But Viper was already moving.
The instant Monster's back was turned, the assassin rushed forward with lethal efficiency. His arms transformed mid-sprint—scales erupting from skin in overlapping patterns, hardening into armor from wrists to shoulders. And from those scales, needle-like appendages extended outward, dozens of them, each glistening with venom.
He launched himself at Monster's exposed back.
The impact was visceral—a rapid-fire series of thuds as needles punched through Monster's thick hide, some breaking off completely, others driving deep into muscle. Viper's momentum carried him forward, needles sinking deeper, then he kicked off and backflipped away, creating distance before Monster could react.
He landed in a crouch fifteen feet away, both arms still extended, ready.
The dust from Monster's crash began to settle.
Monster's form became visible. He stood facing away from Viper, completely motionless. Dozens of needles protruded from his back and sides like grotesque piercings. Blood ran down his skin in dark streams. His eyes were closed. His breathing had stopped.
Seconds ticked by in silence.
"Is that it?" someone in the crowd called out. "Already?"
More murmuring spread. Executives checked tablets. Some smiled, others frowned.
Seung leaned toward Lucius, voice tight with panic. "Hey. I thought you said the Monster guy was gonna win? He's already dead!"
Lucius didn't move, eyes fixed on Monster's still form. "Wait for it."
"Wait for what?!" Seung's voice climbed. "He's done! My money's—"
Monster's eyes snapped open.
They locked onto Viper with an intensity that transcended rage. Pure predatory focus. The gaze of something that had identified prey and would not stop until that prey was destroyed.
Without warning, without any buildup, Monster spun and charged.
The speed was shocking—one moment still, the next a blur of muscle and violence covering the distance faster than something that size should move.
Viper's professional calm cracked for just a moment as his brain tried to process the impossible. The amount of venom he'd injected should have dropped an elephant. Should have stopped any heart. Should have—
Monster's fist drove toward Viper's midsection with pile-driver force.
Training saved him. Viper twisted, taking the blow on his scaled forearm instead of his core. The impact still launched him sideways, his body airborne for a heartbeat before he converted the momentum into a controlled roll, using the force to create distance.
But he'd felt that hit through the scales. Felt the power behind it. His forearm throbbed despite the armor.
This shouldn't be possible.
Monster didn't pause. He tracked Viper's movement and immediately closed distance again, driven by pure aggression rather than technique.
Viper backed away quickly, scales spreading further—up his arms, across his chest and shoulders. Maximum defensive coverage. His mind raced. The poison wasn't working. Why wasn't it working? Nothing survived that much neurotoxin. Nothing.
Monster opened his hand and swiped, claws extended like blades.
Viper saw it coming and reacted on instinct—dozens of needles shot outward from his upper body in a concentrated defensive barrage, creating a spike-filled barrier between them.
The needles hit Monster's hand and arm, punching clean through flesh, several emerging from the other side. They stopped the claw swipe. Barely. The hand kept pushing forward against the embedded spikes, blood flowing freely, muscle tearing.
Then more needles hit—Monster's lower body, upper chest, right shoulder. Viper had turned himself into a living weapon, every spine carrying death.
Monster stood there, connected to Viper by dozens of impaling needles. Neither moved for a heartbeat.
Blood ran down the spikes like rain.
In that frozen moment, Viper's mind flashed back—
A darkened bedroom. A politician sleeping peacefully, unaware. Viper's hand over the man's mouth, a single needle pressing against the neck. The man's eyes snapping open in terror. The needle sliding in. The neurotoxin flooding his system. The body convulsing once, twice, then going still.
Clean. Professional. Efficient.
Money in the account by morning.
Because money was everything. Money was power, freedom, survival. With money, you had everything. Without it, you were nothing—just like he'd been nothing when his parents sold him. Sold their own son like livestock because they needed the cash more than they needed him.
He'd escaped that fate. Clawed his way up from nothing. Made himself valuable. Made himself feared.
And now he was here, one step away from the Big Boys, one step away from real money, real power, everything he'd ever wanted—
"DIE!" Viper screamed, and pumped every drop of venom he could produce through those needles directly into Monster's body.
Enough neurotoxin to kill ten men. Twenty. Enough to drop a full-grown elephant in seconds.
Monster went completely still.
Viper held his position, needles still embedded, still forcing poison through them. His breath came in controlled gasps. This had to work. Had to. No biological organism could survive this dosage. The nervous system would shut down. The heart would stop. The muscles would seize. Simple biology.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
Monster still hadn't moved.
Fifteen seconds.
The crowd started murmuring with more certainty now. No way anything survived that. No way.
Seung slumped in his seat, face going pale. His bet. His money. Gone. He'd trusted this kid's analysis and—
"Wait for it," Lucius repeated, voice unchanged.
Twenty seconds.
Monster's head began to turn.
Slowly, deliberately, looking back over his shoulder at Viper with those dead, hate-filled eyes.
Viper's face went white. "No. No, that's not possible. You should be—"
Monster spun.
The movement was so sudden, so violent, that several needles snapped off inside his body. His backhand caught Viper across the chest even as Viper tried to pull away, ripping out the remaining needles in an explosion of blood and torn flesh.
The impact launched Viper backward. He hit the sand hard, rolled, came up gasping and disoriented.
Monster stood there, covered in his own blood. Dozens of needles protruded from his body like grotesque decorations. Blood ran freely from every wound. The amount of neurotoxin in his system was astronomically lethal.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
Each movement should have been impossible. His nervous system should have been completely shut down. His heart should have stopped beating. His muscles should have been frozen.
But Monster kept moving forward, those dead eyes locked on Viper with single-minded purpose.
Viper's professional calm shattered completely.
For the first time since he'd discovered his powers, since he'd made his first kill, since he'd become the feared assassin who never failed—he felt something he'd only ever inflicted on others.
Pure, primal terror.
Another memory flashed—
A warehouse. A man begging for his life, tears streaming down his face, offering money, anything, everything he had. Viper's needle at his throat. The man's eyes wide with the knowledge that death had come.
That helpless terror. That desperate, animal fear.
Viper had fed on it. Had enjoyed it.
Now he understood it from the other side.
"Stay back," Viper breathed, his voice barely audible. Then louder, "Stay back!"
Monster began pulling needles from his body, one by one. Each removal brought fresh blood, but he didn't seem to notice or care. His eyes never left his prey.
"This isn't happening," Viper muttered, backing away. "You should be dead. You should be DEAD!"
He formed his scales into a defensive wall, needles extending outward in every direction, creating a barrier of deadly spines. "Stay the hell away from me!"
Monster dropped into a crouch.
Then launched himself forward in an explosive charge, covering the distance in less than a second.
He hit Viper's defensive formation head-on. Needles punched into his chest, his arms, his face—some going completely through his body and emerging from the other side. Blood exploded outward in a horrific spray.
But Monster's momentum didn't stop. He drove forward through the spikes, through the pain that should have stopped anything living, powered by nothing but relentless aggression.
His clawed hand closed around Viper's face.
Viper screamed and released every needle he could from point-blank range—hundreds of spines shooting out in all directions. They punched through Monster's hand, through his arm, through his torso. Some went straight through completely and embedded in the sand behind him.
Monster's grip didn't loosen.
He lifted Viper by the face, fingers digging into skull, and slammed him into the ground with crushing force.
BOOM!
The impact created a small crater. Viper's scales cracked from the force, some shattering completely. Blood sprayed from his mouth and nose.
Monster raised his foot, positioning it directly over Viper's head for a finishing stomp that would splatter the assassin's brains across the arena floor.
Viper released a desperate burst of needles upward, hitting Monster's descending leg. They punched completely through—shin, calf, emerging from the other side.
The stomp stopped.
Inches from Viper's face.
But Monster kept pushing down. Slowly. Inexorably. His weight and strength forcing his foot down through the needles as blood ran freely, dripping hot onto Viper's upturned face.
Viper's eyes went wide with absolute terror. The kind of fear he'd seen in his victims' eyes countless times. Now it was his turn.
He was going to die here. Die like all the people he'd killed. Die afraid and helpless and—
He retracted the needles desperately and rolled away. Monster's foot crashed down where his head had been a heartbeat before, the impact shaking the ground.
Viper scrambled on hands and knees, then forced himself upright, his professional training warring with base instinct screaming at him to just run, just get away, distance didn't matter anymore, survival was everything—
Monster turned toward him and began walking forward again. Slow. Methodical. Inevitable.
Blood covered Monster completely now. Wounds that should have been fatal decorated his body. Poison that should have killed him ten times over coursed through his veins.
And he kept coming.
The Jumbotron suddenly chimed.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Jamal's voice cut through the tension. "TIME FOR... THE DROP!"
Five spinning panels appeared on screen: SLEDGEHAMMER. CHAINSAW. ROCKET LAUNCHER. FLAMETHROWER. MYSTERY OPTION.
The crowd leaned forward, excitement building. This could change everything.
Voting began immediately. Executives and fighters with betting privileges made their choices, percentages climbing on screen.
The countdown hit zero.
Final results flashed: ROCKET LAUNCHER: 51%
MYSTERY OPTION: 24%
FLAMETHROWER: 13%
SLEDGEHAMMER: 7%
CHAINSAW: 5%
"ROCKET LAUNCHER TAKES IT!" Jamal screamed with glee. "Let's see if Viper can turn this around!"
A compartment in the arena ceiling opened. The rocket launcher dropped, suspended by a small parachute. It landed near the center of the pit with a heavy thud.
Viper's eyes locked onto it. His only chance. His only way out.
He broke into a run, scales still extended, body screaming with pain from Monster's attacks. If he could reach it, if he could get one clean shot—
Behind him, Monster gave chase.
But Viper had a head start. He reached the weapon first, hands closing around the grip.
Military-grade. One rocket loaded. Heavy but manageable.
He spun around just as Monster closed to ten feet away.
Viper aimed. Monster's mouth opened in that terrible roar.
Another flash of memory—
Standing over a woman who'd seen too much, who could identify him. Her pleading. Her tears. His needle at her throat. Her final, desperate, "Please—"
The needle sliding in. The life leaving her eyes. The body hitting the floor.
Another job. Another payment. Another step toward having everything.
Money was everything. Money was power. Money was—
"DIE!" Viper screamed, and pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The rocket fired at point-blank range. The explosion was deafening, a massive fireball erupting and engulfing Monster completely. The shockwave kicked up sand and dust in a cloud that obscured the entire center of the arena.
Viper was thrown backward by the concussive force, the empty launcher tumbling from his hands. He hit the ground hard, dazed, his scales absorbing most of the impact but leaving him disoriented.
The crowd went silent, waiting.
Viper lay there on his back, staring up through the dust cloud, his body a map of pain. It had to be over. Nothing survived a rocket at that range. Nothing could—
Please let it be over.
The smoke began to clear.
A shape became visible through the haze.
Still standing.
"No," Viper whispered.
Monster emerged from the smoke, and several people in the crowd gasped audibly.
His entire front was charred black, skin burned completely away in places to reveal muscle and bone underneath. His face was a ruined horror—one eye completely gone, just a burned socket, jaw hanging at a wrong angle, most of his teeth visible through burned-away cheek. Blood and other fluids ran down his body in streams.
But he was standing.
Moving forward.
And impossibly, the wounds were already beginning to close. Not fast regeneration like some fighters had. Just the basic, stubborn refusal of a body that didn't know how to die.
Viper's mind broke.
Everything he'd built—his reputation, his skills, his perfect killing tool that never failed—none of it mattered. This thing wouldn't die. Couldn't die. And he was going to be torn apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Terror flooded through him completely now, drowning out training, drowning out professionalism, drowning out everything except the desperate animal need to survive.
He tried to scramble backward but his body wouldn't respond properly. Too much damage. Too much exhaustion. Too much fear.
Monster closed the distance, moving with that same terrible inevitability.
Viper released every needle he had left—a desperate final barrage that hit Monster's ruined chest, some punching completely through.
Monster didn't even slow down.
His hand reached down and grabbed Viper's leg.
The one that wasn't already broken.
Viper felt the grip tighten around his shin and calf.
"No! NO! PLEASE!" His voice broke into pure panic. "HELP ME! SOMEONE—"
Monster's grip tightened further.
CRACK!
The bone snapped like a dry branch. The sound echoed through the arena.
Viper's scream was inhuman, primal, the sound of a man whose body had betrayed him, whose perfect killing tool had failed him, whose carefully constructed power had crumbled to nothing.
Monster lifted Viper by the broken leg and flung him like a rag doll.
Viper's body hit the electromagnetic barrier with tremendous force, the field flaring bright where he impacted. He fell to the sand in a broken heap, blood streaming from multiple wounds, scales cracked and useless, leg bent at an impossible angle.
The crowd cheered. Some laughed. This was what they came for.
Viper tried to move. To crawl. To do anything.
His body wouldn't respond.
He lay there against the barrier wall, gasping, broken, as Monster's shadow fell over him.
The beast approached slowly now, savoring the moment. Whatever remained of Monster's mind understood this part. This was what he was for. This was his purpose.
Viper's remaining hand clawed weakly at the sand, fingers digging into the blood-soaked ground.
Final memories flashed through his fading consciousness—
His parents. Their faces when they'd sold him. No regret. No hesitation. Just relief at the money.
His first kill. How easy it had been. How good it had felt to have that power.
Every victim after. Every face frozen in terror. Every life ended by his needle.
Money. Power. Everything he'd wanted. Everything he'd killed for.
And now—
"Please," Viper whispered, all his cold professionalism gone, replaced by the raw terror of prey facing a predator. "Please, I don't want to die. Please—"
Monster opened his mouth wide—that terrible, ruined mouth with exposed jaw and shattered teeth.
And lunged.
His teeth found Viper's shoulder first, biting down with tremendous force. The remaining scales cracked and shattered like glass. Teeth punched through muscle, scraped against bone, tore through tissue.
Viper's scream cut through the arena, high and desperate and fading.
Monster didn't bite and release. He held on, pulling, tearing. Then his claws joined in, ripping at Viper's body with savage efficiency, shredding what remained of the scales, pulling away chunks of flesh.
Odd turned pale, his face going green. "Oh my god," he breathed. "Oh my god, he's eating him alive."
Seung sat frozen, staring. His first winning bet, but the cost of watching—
In the executive section, Mike Ross leaned back with a satisfied smile, completely relaxed, like he was watching a pleasant show.
Other executives cheered, laughed, placed side bets on how long Viper would survive, how many pieces Monster would tear off.
Monster continued his feast, methodical and thorough. Each bite took another piece. Viper's screams grew weaker, more desperate, then began to fade.
His struggles became feeble.
Then stopped altogether.
But Monster didn't stop. He shook the body, checking for any remaining fight. Found none. Dropped what remained and raised his head, blood covering his ruined face, and roared in triumph—a sound of pure, mindless victory.
"WINNER—MONSTER!" Jamal's voice carried genuine enthusiasm now, almost giddy. "NOW THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! FINALLY! Some actual BLOODSHED! Some CARNAGE! After FOUR good matches we finally get to see some BLOOD! I was beginning to think we might have to spice things up and force the killing rule again, but DAMN, this was worth the wait!"
"Absolutely brutal finish," Haurang added, trying to maintain some professionalism. "Monster proving conclusively why he's classified as threat level extreme. That combination of poison resistance and regeneration made the difference."
"Made the difference?" Jamal laughed. "The difference was Monster ate a man alive! Tore him apart! Best match of the tournament so far, hands down!"
But Monster wasn't done. His ruined eyes scanned the arena, looking for another target. Someone else to hurt. To kill. To—
The guard with the specialized tranquilizer rifle moved quickly into position at the arena's edge, taking careful aim. The rifle was massive, designed to drop elephants.
He fired once. The dart hit Monster's neck.
Monster roared and turned toward this new threat, taking a stumbling step forward.
The guard fired again. Second dart hit Monster's shoulder.
Monster's legs wobbled. He took another step, then another, driven by pure rage and instinct.
His eyes started to roll back.
One more step.
Then his legs gave out completely, and Monster collapsed face-first into the blood-soaked sand with a ground-shaking thud.
The arena held its breath for a moment, making sure the beast was really down.
Finally, the tension broke. The crowd erupted.
Medical personnel appeared at the arena entrance but stayed well back. There was nothing they could do—Viper was far beyond medical help. The cleanup crew would handle what remained.
A specialized containment team moved in with heavy equipment, approaching Monster's unconscious form with obvious fear despite the tranquilizers. They worked quickly, efficiently, reattaching restraints and loading the beast back onto the cargo elevator like they were handling unexploded ordnance.
The elevator descended, taking Monster back to whatever hell they kept him in between fights.
Seung sat frozen in his seat, face pale but eyes bright. Everything Lucius had predicted had come true. Every detail. Monster's poison resistance. Viper's increasing panic. The brutal finish.
And he'd won. His first real bet. His first real profit.
Some executives looked disappointed—not because a man had been brutally murdered, but because they'd lost money on the wrong fighter.
Mike Ross sat there with that wide grin, completely satisfied with his pet's performance.
Hell, even Seung was happy despite the horror—he'd just won his first bet, just made real money.
Lucius sat there expressionless, just looking around, observing reactions, cataloging information.
And Odd—though he'd seen violence before, had lived a hard life with plenty of blood and death—this was by far the most gruesome thing he'd witnessed. He knew the kind of place he was in, knew there was no reasoning with these people, no appealing to humanity or decency.
But something in him just couldn't take it.
He started to stand up, words forming on his lips. Some kind of protest, some condemnation, something to acknowledge that what they'd all just watched was wrong—
Lucius's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Firm. Final.
Odd looked over at him, emotions warring on his face.
Lucius slowly moved his head left, then right. No. Don't.
The message in his eyes was crystal clear: These people are different. You'd just be wasting your time and making yourself a target. Nothing you say will change anything. It'll only hurt you.
Odd swallowed hard, jaw clenching. But he sat back down, hands shaking slightly.
The cleanup crew was already at work, bringing specialized equipment to handle the blood-soaked sand and the remains. They moved with practiced efficiency—this clearly wasn't their first time.
The arena began to clear. Some people heading to lounges, others staying for the next match.
Odd stood up, his face still green around the edges. "I'm going to my room," he said quietly. "I feel sick."
Seung nodded, still riding the high of his winning bet. "I'll see you in the afternoon then."
Lucius shook his head. "No. We won't be betting on the next match."
Seung blinked, confused. "What? Why not? We just won! Your analysis was perfect! We should—"
"What do you think will happen if you keep winning every bet on every match?" Lucius interrupted, his tone patient but firm. "People notice patterns. The organizers notice patterns. We gotta keep it down a bit. Bet on a few matches, not all of them. Pick our spots strategically."
Seung opened his mouth to argue, his gambler's instinct screaming at him to press the advantage.
"Besides," Lucius continued, "even with my skills, I can't guarantee one hundred percent accuracy on every fight. Which is actually good in a way. Makes us look more legitimate. More like lucky gamblers and less like people gaming the system."
Seung processed this, his excitement cooling as logic reasserted itself. The kid had a point. Getting too greedy too fast was how people got caught. How they ended up dead in places like this.
Finally, he nodded reluctantly. "Alright. When's the next bet then?"
"We'll figure it out," Lucius said, standing. "Rest up. I'll find you when it's time."
Seung watched him go, then looked down at his tablet showing his winnings. Not bad for a first bet. And if this kept up, if the kid's analysis stayed this good...
He could clear his debts. Start over. Maybe even build something.
Lucius made his way back through the corridors toward the fighter quarters. The sounds of the arena faded behind him.
He eventually reached his room and sat on the edge of his bed, eyes closing but not resting.
His mind was working, processing everything he'd observed. The executives' reactions—who cheered, who stayed quiet, who looked disturbed. The security response times. The facility's rhythms and patterns. The way Monster's control collar worked. The betting systems. The crowd psychology.
Every piece of information cataloged. Every detail noted.
After several minutes of silent contemplation, Lucius opened his eyes and spoke quietly to the empty room, his voice carrying absolute certainty.
"I've seen what I need to see. It's time to set things in motion."
TO BE CONTINUED