City of Sin

Book 2, 62

Gamble

Right at that moment, a bell rang out from the arena. A loud host stepped out, an energetic dwarf with a fiery red beard. Behind him were two naked women, bodies smeared with glistening oil from head to toe making them look like gems dipped in dew. They paraded out in all sorts of poses to the tune of the dwarf’s exaggerated yells.

At the same time, more than ten people started to make rounds through the ring, taking bets from the crowd. Young ladies of various ethnicities made way to their positions in the various compartments on the second level— outside of basic services like food and drink, they would provide some key services. When matches got to the most gory part, for example, a few guests grew so hysterical and animalistic that they pinned these girls down and took them on the spot.

The ring was an open arena with a diameter of about twenty metres. It was less than a metre deep, surrounded by low walls that were about half a metre high. However, this minimal protection was one of the attractions— there would be incidents of accidental gore in the places nearest to the ring during some very intense matches.

The compartments on the second level were already fully occupied. Bowen, Chiron, Mark, and Howie were all present in their compartments, Stormhammer the only one who was nowhere to be seen. Richard took the chance to observe the Blood Scythe a little longer.

The man was humongous, with muscles as sturdy as steel and a layer of thick black hair covering his chest. His shirt left the chest bare, as if to display a medal for show. It seemed like he was of barbarian, if not orcish, descent. Separated by a single compartment, Mark was glowering at Richard from the start. Richard had only turned to him after his exchange with Bowen.

Unlike Mark, who looked so menacing he was on the verge of leaping forward to kill at any time, Richard was calm and collected. The corner of his gaze rested on this upcoming opponent, not letting any detail slip him by. Be it Mark’s glares, roars, or obscene gestures, Richard simply continued to keep an eye on the Blood Scythe and do nothing else. The more elaborate the man’s motions grew, the more details his numeric vision would grant him.

The Blood Scythe was eventually unable to withstand Richard’s passive gaze. He cursed viciously under his breath, turning his own to the ring. As unrestrained and crazy as he was, he would not openly disturb order by getting into a fight with the outsider on the viewing platforms. That would be a display of defiance towards Stormhammer, the most powerful man in the camp. Of course it would be another matter altogether if the outsider was provoked first, but unfortunately that did not happen.

The matches had already begun, four human slaves being pit against a starving direbear. The battle quickly turned bloody as the bear clawed into the warrior’s chest, slicing all the way down his body. A moment later, the wild beast had tackled the rest to the ground and was chewing them up to its heart’s content right in front of the crowd.

Blood flowed, and organs shattered. The gore only hyped up the crowd, as the cheering intensified. The crowd was so pumped up that they could barely find a way to vent their adrenaline, and as they jostled against one another an unlucky fellow was pushed over the wall and into the ring by accident. This quickly got the attention of the bear, which pounced on him amidst screams of despair and took half his head off with a single swipe. The audience didn’t so much as flinch, continuing to jostle as they were overcome by another clamorous cheer.

The battles continued, one after the other. After a few rounds, warriors with background began to take part in the battles, and two of the leaders even pitted their men against each other directly. From the matchups it seemed like Bowen and Chiron were at odds, while Howie had some urgent conflict with Stormhammer. Although the bloodstone orcs had lost, they left a deep impression with their strength.

On the other hand, Mark didn’t seem to be on good terms with anyone.

When a dark-skinned man working under the Blood Scythe stepped into the ring, Richard called over the waitress and tossed a gold coin onto the tray in her hand. He gestured to the dark-skinned fighter, “I bet that he’ll lose this round.”

An outsider who’d directly entered the second level was already a focus of attention, but the radiance of the gold coin just intensified that. There wasn’t even an opponent in the ring yet, but Richard had immediately bet on the man losing. It was clear that this was deliberately targeted at someone, and it caused an instant uproar within the ring as people began to engage in animated discussions.

Mark shot daggers at Richard with his eyes in response. However, he wasn’t as chatty as before— he didn’t say anything.

The battle ended very quickly, the dark-skinned warrior winning without much ado. Richard could already tell that he was a level 10 warrior gifted with innate strength, while his opponent was only level 8 without anything special whatsoever. The victory was actually a given.

Mark glared harshly at Richard, before letting out a smug roar. He then grabbed hold of a waitress and dragged her over, pinning her against the railing. Ripping her skirt of ruthlessly, he forcefully entered her body and began thrusting vigorously.

Richard smiled for a moment before calling his waitress over. He gestured towards the dark-skinned man once more, “I bet he’ll lose the next round.”

Ten gold coins leapt into the tray, and as they fell in they didn’t just grab the crowd’s attention this time. Mark’s manhood was brought to a strangling halt, as he momentarily forgot what he was doing.

He snapped out of his reverie in an instant, however, and realised what was happening. The instant, tremendous humiliation drowned out his sense of reason, and he pushed the young lady away before pointing at Richard, “I want to bet against you! Do you dare have someone battle my Black Reaper? I’ll bet just as much money as you!”

Richard gave a reserved smile. At this moment, his expression reflected his status as a true-blue aristocrat— a state of absolute grace coupled with a faint arrogance of leadership that was not displeasing to the eye, “What an excuse for guts! I thought you’d say you’ll bet many times what I do, but it turns out it’s only one to one.”

Mark’s face reddened instantly, and turned purple the next moment. He had already tightened his grip around the short scythes that made him famous, and the arena quieted down at once.

Richard remained still in his seat, appearing completely unfazed by Mark’s response. He took out a coin pouch with his dazzlingly fair, delicate hands, emptying its contents onto the tray to make a small mound.

“This should be enough for now, I wouldn’t want this fellow to lose his pants to me. He seems like he hasn’t washed them in the longest time,” he said lightly. His bright, clear voice travelled to every ear in the arena, causing countless pairs of eyes to look towards the lower part of Mark’s body. The repeated setbacks had shrunk his manhood to its smallest size, so much so that it was pathetic to look at.

In the next moment, booming laughter drowned out everything else.