The betting booth was as lively as ever, thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, and anticipation. The air hummed with murmured wagers, the clinking of coins, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter as fortunes were gambled away.
I stepped forward, the wooden counter rough beneath my fingers as I reached into my coat. The pouch I withdrew was heavy with gold, its weight solid and certain. I let it drop onto the counter with a dull thud.
"I'll be betting all of this on fighter number three."
For a fleeting moment, the murmurs dulled, a ripple of interest passing through the gathered spectators. The bookmaker, a wiry man with sharp eyes, let a grin split his face.
"All of it, eh? Well now, that's some confidence."
It wasn't confidence, It was certainty.
"Now, now. Please, everyone, take your seats. The main event will commence shortly."
The announcer's voice carried over the bustling crowd, his words laced with authority and practiced ease. A murmur of anticipation swept through the audience as nobles and commoners alike settled into their places, eyes alight with cruel fascination.
From my vantage point in the grandstand, I could see it all—the sprawling stone ground marked by old bloodstains, the towering iron cage at the center, the fighters being herded inside like animals. Some entered willingly, their expressions set with grim determination. Others fought against their fate, dragged forward by guards who shoved them through the open gate before slamming it shut with a resounding clang.
Higher still, in private sections above mine, the wealthiest nobles lounged in luxury, sipping brandy from crystal glasses as they discussed bloodlines and wagers with the casual ease of men accustomed to deciding the fates of others.
My seat had been reserved at the best vantage point, ensuring I would miss nothing.
The moment the signal was given, the arena erupted into chaos.
The clash of steel against steel rang out, punctuated by the sickening crunch of flesh meeting bone. The scent of blood mingled with the metallic tang of rust from the iron bars, and the air grew thick with the screams of the dying.
I leaned forward, my gaze flickering past the carnage to where the boy moved through the stands.
His steps were quick but deliberate, his figure small enough to weave between the press of bodies unnoticed. But I had been watching him for a while now.
He approached a particular nobleman, lingering just long enough to exchange a few whispered words.
The noble's expression twisted in annoyance, his gloved hand shooting out to grab the boy by the collar.
A flicker of tension passed through me—I wondered if the man had uncovered our ploy, if the boy's presence here had finally been noticed for what it was.
But then, the boy spoke.
I couldn't hear the words, but whatever he said made the noble's grip slacken. A heartbeat later, he was released, only for the guard standing behind him—a man with the disciplined stance of a trained soldier—to shove him back, sending him stumbling.
A warning. A demand for him to be on his way.
The boy hesitated, then lifted a hand, fingers brushing against his palm in a subtle gesture. He was asking for payment.
The noble, predictably, did not oblige.
I watched, hidden in the dim glow of my private section, my attention flickering toward the guard. But a glint of silver caught my eye—the insignia on the nobleman's cane. The Laurel Wreath.
The emblem belonged to the Arundell Family. A house renowned for producing the empire's finest talents. They recruited and trained countless soldiers.
I had my suspicions about how they discovered such talent, but now I knew. They didn't find them—they made them fight, weeding out the weak and shaping the strong into loyal soldiers. Or rather, loyal dogs.
The boy lingered a moment longer before turning away, stepping back into the sea of spectators.
Yet just as he did, a faint glint of gold caught the light.
A coin pouch.
A smirk curled at my lips. That brat. He had lifted it straight off the guard's pocket without so much as a whisper of hesitation.
My gaze trailed after him as he slipped into the crowd, his movements fluid, seamless. He was like water, bending and twisting between bodies with practiced ease, never too hurried, never too slow. He belonged to the shifting mass of people, a ghost within the current, seen but unnoticed.
Then—within the span of a breath—he was gone.
Wait... where did he disappear to?
A roar of cheers erupted around me, jolting my attention back to the arena.
"Waaah!!!"
I shifted my gaze toward the bloodstained pit below, just as the fight reached its inevitable climax.
Two figures remained.
A hulking brute, his sweat-drenched muscles glistening under the harsh lights. A seasoned fighter, no doubt—his stance wide, his breathing steady, his fists tight with the kind of confidence that came from countless victories.
Opposite him stood a slender man, his frame almost unimposing in comparison. He was lean, deceptively unarmored, but his posture was different—sharp, poised. There was no wasted movement, no unnecessary tension in his limbs. His gaze was unwavering, cold and calculating.
The crowd had already chosen their victor.
"Patrick! Patrick! Patrick!"
They bellowed the name with certainty, their voices merging into a deafening chant. They believed in strength, in raw power. In the illusion that size and might dictated the outcome of battle.
But they were fools. And reality was never so kind.
A single moment—so swift it would have eluded an untrained eye—decided everything.
The slender man moved. A flicker, a blur. His footwork was fluid, his strike merciless.
His fist tore through the air like steel, driving into the man's jaw with brutal precision.
With a sickening crunch, the brute crumpled, his massive frame crashing to the stone ground like a felled beast. A final, broken breath slipped from his lips. The crowd fell into a stunned silence.
And then—chaos erupted through the arena.
"…Woah!!!"
The crowd surged to their feet, a wave of excitement rippling through the arena like a living creature.
A lone figure stood amidst the carnage.
Blood glistened on his knuckles, sweat traced glimmering paths down his skin, and his chest rose and fell with the measured cadence of a man who had mastered exhaustion. Around him, silence reigned—thick and oppressive—broken only by the faint, ragged breaths of the dying. Bodies littered the stone floor, twisted in agony or stilled in death, the violence etched into every motionless limb.
"And the winner is… number three!"
The announcer's voice thundered through the arena, shattering the hush like a blade through glass.
Just as I expected.
"A new champion has risen!"
The crowd roared in a tide of voices, their excitement crashing like waves against the stone walls of the arena.
"Ralph! Ralph!"
I had known the outcome long before the first blow had been struck.
The winner's name had already been etched in ink and distributed in crisp morning editions of the local papers—mere days before the Fourth Prince's birthday celebration. Ralph, the underdog with the golden left hook.
I remained seated in the shadowed box, away from the flickering torchlight and far from the eyes that mattered.
"The one you placed bets on... did he win, Sir?"
I turned sharply. The boy had reappeared beside me, his expression infuriatingly calm, as if he hadn't just vanished into thin air moments ago.
Haah... this boy is good.
"Yes," I said, resting my fingers on the iron railing. "He won."
I studied the boy's face for a moment, then added, "Where do you plan to go now?"
"Where else?" He shrugged, an elegant motion far too practiced for someone dressed in rags. "I'll head for a nearby town. Enough ruckus here already."
His nonchalance was theatrical—almost rehearsed. But beneath it, I sensed calculation.
My fingers drummed absently against the railing, the cold metal singing dully beneath the leather of my gloves.
"You've got some useful skills, boy. Tell me—do you plan on serving another noble anytime soon?"
His posture stiffened—not by much, but enough. Just a heartbeat of hesitation, a flicker of wariness that clouded his gaze.
"Pardon me... but I've had enough of nobles. I don't want to get entangled in their games anymore."
A wise choice—for someone without the tools to play and survive.
"Are you certain?" I asked, my gaze narrowing. "It won't be long before they come after you."
He paused. That stillness—like a prey animal deciding whether to run or freeze.
Then, slowly, he nodded. "I appreciate the warning, Sir. But I've lived this way my whole life. I'm used to it by now."
Foolish or brave? Sometimes, the two are indistinguishable.
"I see. Then at least tell me your name."
His fingers twitched. A hesitation—barely there, but noticeable to someone trained to look.
As if a name, that most basic of offerings, could endanger him more than it already had.
Then, with a quiet breath, he answered.
"It's Archie, Sir."
His voice was steady, but I caught the hint of caution buried beneath it.
Archie.
No surname. No title. No hint of heritage.
A name without roots, drifting like a leaf in a storm. No lineage to bind him, no family crest to shield or shackle him. In a world where names could open doors or close coffins, perhaps that made it all the more valuable.
He kept his posture relaxed, but I saw the way his eyes never stopped scanning—always calculating exits, obstacles, threats. The kind of vigilance bred not in academies, but alleyways.
The way he had slipped through the crowd earlier—unnoticed, unbothered—was not the skill of an amateur.
No. This boy had been surviving in the cracks between society's stones for a long, long time.
A street rat—but a clever one.
"Very well. You may take your leave."
He nodded, respectful but guarded, and turned without another word, his silhouette swallowed by the dim torchlight and shifting shadows of the corridor.
He disappeared as seamlessly as he had arrived.
Not long after, the nobleman—his purpose fulfilled—rose from his private box across the arena. His cloak fluttered behind him as he descended into the depths of the underground passages, vanishing like a ghost into the gloom.
I leaned back in my chair, eyes fixed on the darkened corridor where Archie had vanished. My fingers drummed a quiet rhythm on the worn wood of the armrest.
"Alfred," I said, my voice low and clipped. "Have a man tail the boy. And another—on that nobleman."
"Understood, master," came Alfred's calm reply, ever the embodiment of quiet efficiency.
There was still one matter left to attend before we left this place.