Underground Fighting Arena

The middle-aged man was taken aback by Odys's question before smiling. "As long as you don't report it to the police, it isn't illegal.

"Fight one match. Win, and you get 5 pounds; lose, and you still get 3 pounds. What do you think? Pretty profitable, right?"

Only then did Odys understand. It was black-market boxing—or, to put it more nicely, no-holds-barred fighting.

It did sound quite profitable. Most of Backlund's middle class earned weekly wages of only 3 to 8 pounds. More precisely, anyone earning over 6 pounds was already considered relatively well-off middle class.

But injuries suffered in a match often took more than a week to heal.

Then Odys considered something else. I've been worrying about my lack of real combat experience. I could use the underground fighting arena and its ruleless matches to hone my fighting skills.

Seeing Odys remain silent, the middle-aged man assumed he was dissatisfied with the pay. "How about 6 pounds for a win and 4 pounds for a loss?"

He smiled. "It can't go any higher. You haven't fought in any matches before, so I don't know your skill level. This is already the highest price I can offer you."

Coming back to himself, Odys asked, "If I win two matches in a row, how much can I earn from the second one?"

"Quite confident, aren't you, young man?" the middle-aged man said with a smile. "The second match pays 12 pounds!

"But I should remind you that the people who fight in the arena are all quite skilled."

Odys continued as if talking to himself, "So if I win three matches in a row, I can earn 24 pounds from the third match alone?"

In that case, he could earn 48 pounds from the three matches combined! That was insanely profitable!

He grinned. Why hadn't I thought of this way to make money before?

Odys's smile gradually began to unsettle the middle-aged man. Clearing his throat, he said, "If you win three matches in a row, you can get 50 pounds for the third one. But very few people manage three consecutive victories, so don't get ahead of yourself."

Odys seemed not to hear him. "Then I can earn 74 pounds in total! Not bad!"

"You..." The middle-aged man was somewhat helpless. "Forget it. Think whatever you want."

Odys said, "I'll go with you. I want to fight."

He felt like he could hardly wait any longer!

"All right." The middle-aged man put his fingers in his mouth and let out a sharp whistle. Before long, a small carriage arrived.

Once they were in the carriage, the middle-aged man introduced himself. His name was Gels, and he was the manager of an underground fighting arena. Every day, he searched for newcomers at places like fighting clubs.

Odys nodded. That was one way of putting it: black-market fighters were "used up" rather quickly.

The carriage traveled all the way to South Borough. In a narrow alley stood a dilapidated bar.

Gels led Odys inside, and a drinking patron immediately called out, "Gels, brought back another fledgling?"

"He's no fledgling," Gels said seriously. "This gentleman is a veteran member of the Backlund Fighting Club!"

That explanation only drew a burst of laughter. One red-nosed patron laughed and said, "You bragged about that big fellow last time too. In the end, his nose was broken less than a minute after he got in the ring."

"Hahaha~"

The laughter grew even louder.

Gels waved his hand irritably. "Gentlemen, get ready to place your bets!"

As he spoke, he led Odys to the bar counter. The bartender immediately lifted the counter's partition, then knocked on the door behind it.

The door opened from within, revealing a staircase leading downward, with a guard inside.

"Hang in there, fledgling! Try to last a full minute!"

"Hahaha~"

The cheers and laughter behind them sounded as though they might blow off the roof.

Once the door closed, Odys stopped on the stairs and asked, "Can I place a bet?"

Gels was first taken aback, then smiled. "Of course!"

Odys took out his wallet. "Let's see, I still have 66 pounds, 12 soli, and 5 pence. I'll bet it all on myself winning three matches in a row!"

Gels stared blankly at the stack of money. "You... you're very wealthy."

Odys was also slightly stunned. He looked over his clothes. "Do I look poor?"

"You... I saw that you weren't dressed in a gentleman's tailcoat or formal attire, and that you always rode public carriages, so..."

That was why Gels had approached him. If he had known this guy could produce more than sixty pounds at once, he never would have asked. Unless someone was sick in the head, no one that wealthy would participate in no-holds-barred fighting.

Odys said helplessly, "Formal clothes are uncomfortable."

"But all gentlemen dress that way."

Odys spread his hands. "I've never wanted to be some damned gentleman."

He did not continue the topic, instead handing the money to Gels. "Remember to give me the receipt."

"All right, all right." Gels hurriedly accepted the money. Naturally, he would not refuse business delivered right to his door. At the same time, he planned to spend 1 pound betting that Odys would win his first match. If Odys won, the odds would surely be high; if he lost, Gels would only be down 1 pound.

At the bottom of the stairs was a sizable underground space, two or three times larger than the bar above. It also had two other entrances. Its only drawback was the poor air quality.

At the center of the venue stood a large circular wooden enclosure. Dried bloodstains could still be seen on both the railing and the floor within it.

This was also the bar's warehouse, with several barrels piled around and two simple but sturdy wine racks.

The betting station was a small, battered desk. Behind it sat a burly man in his thirties with a fierce expression and teeth stained yellow by cigarettes.

From Gels's conversation with the man, Odys learned that this was Simon, the owner of the underground fighting arena.

After learning that Odys had bet more than sixty pounds on himself, Simon gave the somewhat thin young man before him a fierce look. "You've got guts."

Odys smiled faintly and asked Gels, the manager, "Please prepare dinner for me. Hmm, preferably something not too greasy."

Gels first sought Simon's approval with his eyes before nodding. "All right."

With an ill-intentioned smile, Simon reminded him, "You'd better not eat too much. It'll be very unpleasant if you get beaten badly enough to throw up later!"

The several thugs behind him burst into undisguised laughter.

"Thanks for the reminder." Odys said nothing more and found a stool to sit on. More than ten minutes later, Gels brought him his dinner.

Stewed pork with tender peas, along with a large piece of bread and a cup of cheap tea.

The taste was ordinary, but Odys was not a picky eater. As he watched gamblers arrive one after another to place their bets, he finished all the food.

By around eight in the evening, more than two hundred gamblers had gathered here, and the first match was ready to begin.