On the walk to the bookmakers’ stand, I start to notice something different.

Glances, frequently fixed on us.

I can’t pinpoint who or how many, but I feel them. Eyes resting on my back like fingers. Some near the western pillar of the Oathring. Others are up in the third tier of the bleachers. A pair somewhere behind me, moving when we move.

Surveillance.

Patient, professional, organized. The watchers aren’t curious civilians—they’re distributed by training. Guild people, holding formation while pretending they aren’t holding one.

On the south side of the Oathring, a structure built higher than the others—taller than the aerial bleachers themselves—I can clearly see Rahul Sharma. He’s seated under an awning of dark fabric, the glass cane resting across his thighs. The woman who pushes his wheelchair stands behind him, motionless. He probably decided to watch our next fights personally.

He wants to see what he just bought.

I lean toward Oliver and lower my voice.

"You think you can handle it?"

Oliver looks at me for a few seconds, trying to read what I actually mean. He knows I’m not asking whether he can fight. I’m asking something else, something he can’t quite see yet. After a few thoughtful tries, he asks back.

"Why are you asking, boss?" His face is visibly worried.

"Your match looks like it’s being watched. I think the choice of your opponent is going to be manipulated."

"Trust me, boss. I might not be a high-order class, but my order is still a Rank A. I can handle it."

I give Oliver three pats on the shoulder. "That’s not really my plan. But... you still have the Plates I gave you?"

Oliver nods, not understanding what I’m getting at.

He only just arrived today. He’s barely had time to gear up. But Oliver is a box of surprises. He’s always had something extra tucked away to bail himself out.

"War name. Quickly." The head of the betting stand is rushing us now. Something is moving behind the scenes.

"Bone Crusher." Oliver answers like it’s a name he’s been turning over in his head for a long time.

"Is there a story behind it?" I ask.

He gives me a smile and a thumbs-up, nodding to me.

From behind us, the narrator-judge starts announcing the names even before we’re in the arena. Rahul has already made his move.

I listen carefully.

"As part of the team of the Ballerina and Soline... Bandit..." he coughs, cleaning his throat. "Here he comes—BOOOONNNEE CRUSHEERRR!"

The crowd reacts to the name immediately. A wave of approving sound, scattered cheers, even applause from the wealthier seats. The narrator paused on the syllables on purpose, dragging out Boooneee like a butcher carving a roast.

’You son of a bitch...’

Rahul is marketing on Oliver’s behalf. He’s inflating Oliver’s odds in our favor so we don’t actually make much money—keeping us trapped under that contract. If the crowd believes Oliver wins, the payouts shrink. Both for the bettors and for the house.

If I remember correctly, the house’s cut on a favored win is ten percent. On an upset, where the underdog wins, it climbs to thirty percent.

He’d rather the crowd lose small than win big against him. He’d rather we win small and stay short of the Plate Scale than win big and clear his contract early. Every option he’s stacking is one that funnels back to him.

’He’s just a bastard, like every crime kingpin.’

"Oliver. I really need you to trust me on this. Can I count on you?"

"I already trust you, boss." He answers, arching an eyebrow.

I pull seven thousand Scales out of my inventory in the form of seventy Shards. The shards clack against each other softly in my palm.

"I’m betting all of this on the warrior—" I read the name off the board again. "Animal Pact."

[Scales: 17,003 → 10,003]

The bookmaker stares at me for a long moment, not understanding. I’m betting on the rival, and the number is unusual at this stage of the day. Then I watch his eyes track upward toward the construction on the south side of the Oathring. He’s looking at Rahul.

Rahul nods once, granting authorization. His expression is completely unreadable from this distance. The bookmaker doesn’t touch his comm. Not even for a second. There’s no communication line between them—just a visual confirmation system for high-value wagers. Old guild discipline. No paper trail.

’This is good for me.’

I hand the Shards over and check the odds board on top of the stand. A small luminous bar displays the lines, runes flickering across the wood face. Within seconds, the numbers begin to shift across the various stands around the Oathring, syncing to each other through whatever invisible thread the Patala Syndicate runs through this venue.

Oliver: 2:1

Animal Pact: 7:1

’Excellent.’

"Oliver. I need you to lose this fight. But give them a show. Can you do that?"

"LOSE?" Oliver lets out a heavy sigh. "The joy of the poor lasts till the end of the paycheck." He tosses out the expression to soften his disappointment, mostly to himself.

"Please, Oliver. It’s not for me. It’s for us." I genuinely try to put on the most convincing pleading face I have in my ’face arsenal.’

"Damn it. All right. I’ll see what I can do."

We start walking to the edge of the Oathring. Oliver carries his massive hammer slung across his shoulders, and for the first time, the crowd around the arena parts to let us through. They open a wide corridor for him and me to pass.

"You’re not just owing me one anymore, boss. You owe me two."

He winks at me, which feels strange enough to land as a small comic beat.

"One for not pushing you about your secret. And one for this."

"Done." I give him a crooked smile. "Just give them a show... with an unexpected ending."

Oliver steps into the Oathring and throws a thumbs-up over his head, stretching his entire arm above his head. The hammer sits comfortably across his other shoulder, casual as a man arriving at a market stall.

The crowd has already bought into the charming smile on this veteran.