You broke my heart

That thing...

Ralf's pupils suddenly contracted, and he gripped his cane tightly.

"You still have that thing?"

Although he knew Rorge was very likely talking nonsense, the enormous temptation still compelled Ralf to lower his head and stare at the face mere inches away.

"One thousand Gold Dragons."

Rorge did not answer directly. Instead, he repeated, "Bet it all on the next match. If I lose, that thing is yours."

At that, Ralf narrowed his eyes slightly.

But the other man's eyes remained as cunning as ever, giving him no way to tell whether he was telling the truth.

"Fine. One thousand Gold Dragons."

Only after considering it for a long time did he slowly draw a deep breath and snap irritably at Ma Ji, who was sitting on the floor, "Get the fuck up, coward! You should have handled this little matter calmly and easily!"

"What are the odds on the next match?"

Hearing this, Ma Ji hurriedly scrambled to his feet and grabbed his writing board. "F-five to one, Boss Ralf."

"Five to one?" Ralf's brow furrowed deeply. "Why are the odds so high?"

After all, such outrageous odds only appeared a handful of times a year.

High odds meant the odds on the other side would be pitifully low, perhaps only paying out 1.2 times the stake or even less, to prevent gamblers from guaranteeing a profit by betting on both sides.

And that also meant the betting might become completely one-sided. After all, although the payout was low, it could practically be considered guaranteed money.

"B-because the next fighter is Bode the Butcher!"

Ma Ji answered, "And his challenger is a newcomer who just signed up. Nobody knows him at all, so..."

"Bode the Butcher?"

At that, Ralf nodded.

That fellow was the Blood Pit's cash cow, with an undefeated record of thirty-two matches so far.

Some even said that the walking mountain serving under Lord Tywin was no match for Bode.

Of course, there might have been some exaggeration in that, but in Flea Bottom, Bode could never lose!

Only...

Ralf looked at Rorge and sneered disdainfully. "Bet a thousand Gold Dragons, and even if you make something out of nothing, you'll win two hundred at most. Is that enough for you to spend?"

"Oh, Ralf... Ralf, you're still so naive."

Rorge shook his head in apparent disappointment, then broke into an even crazier grin. "Who told you... I was betting on Bode to win?"

He deliberately paused, then abruptly raised his voice:

"One thousand Gold Dragons... all on the newcomer!"

An uproar swept through everyone present at those words. They all stared at Rorge as though he were an idiot.

"He's mad! Completely mad!"

"Nobody can take a punch from the Butcher! His arms are thicker than my waist!"

"I bet that newcomer won't last three breaths!"

"That noseless freak must have rotted his brain drinking brown!"

Gloating voices instantly filled the arena. Nobody thought Rorge stood a chance; after all, the Butcher's prowess had long been plain for all to see.

But Ralf did not laugh. He merely stared coldly at Rorge, a trace of doubt flickering in his eyes.

Because he truly could not understand what this fellow was up to.

"Looks like that trip really did ruin your brain, Rorge."

After puzzling over it for some time without reaching an answer, Ralf simply snorted. "Fine. I'll watch you lose!"

Having delivered that threat, he turned to leave with his cane, only for Rorge to stop him.

"Hey, Ralf."

Ralf turned back impatiently. "What? Having second thoughts?"

"No, no, no... I'm not as fickle as certain people."

Rorge wagged his finger, plastered on a fake smile, and mocked him. "But look, shouldn't you properly entertain a big customer like me, betting a thousand Gold Dragons?"

"I want two fine steaks and a jug of golden Arbor wine, aged at least ten years. Have them sent to my boss."

He placed the order with practiced ease, then jerked his thumb toward Corleone.

Ralf followed the gesture and only then noticed a man standing in the corner. The man seemed to sense his gaze at that very moment and gave him an elegant nod.

Boss?

He frowned. This fellow looked utterly unremarkable and wore not a single valuable accessory.

Why would Rorge follow a boss like that?

"...Do as he says."

Rapping his cane heavily against the floor, Ralf suppressed his doubts and stopped dwelling on it. He turned and left, surrounded by several underlings.

He had only gone a few steps when one of his men sidled up and whispered, "Boss Ror... Rorge must have some purpose in coming back so suddenly. We screwed him over so badly back then..."

Before he could finish, an icy look from Ralf choked off his words.

"Hmph!"

Glancing at Rorge as he headed toward the stands, Ralf spoke in a low voice, his eyes vicious. "Look into it. Find out exactly who he and that 'boss' of his are."

"Yes, boss!"

"Wait..."

The underling answered and was about to leave when Ralf suddenly called him back.

"Go notify Captain Sven Rosby. Tell him the wanted criminal Rorge is back in King's Landing, and he's right here."

"What?"

The underling started, then said hesitantly, "Call in the Gold Cloaks?"

"Boss, that's not how things are done in our line of work. Besides, with the kind of business we're running, wouldn't calling in the Gold Cloaks be asking to die..."

"Idiot!"

Ralf snapped, a venomous smile curling his lips. "I've spent so much money in King's Landing this past year, keeping so many Gold Cloaks fed."

"It's time... those bastards who take the money and do nothing did some work!"

"It's taken care of, just as you ordered, Boss Corleone."

Returning to the stands, Rorge bowed to Corleone with utmost respect, his manner seemingly very humble.

He felt rather pleased with himself. After all, he had not only completed his task but done it beautifully.

Yet the praise he expected never came. Instead, he received a measured rebuke:

"You seem very pleased with yourself."

Rorge froze for a moment, then raised his head and looked at Corleone in feigned confusion.

A faint, elusive smile lingered at the corners of Corleone's mouth. His seated posture looked casual, yet an invisible pressure radiated from him.

"I... I..." His throat tightened.

Corleone did not rush to berate him. Instead, he shifted slightly in his seat and leaned back deliberately, half his face sinking into the boundary between light and shadow.

Only his smiling jawline remained exposed to the firelight. "You've disappointed me, Rorge. When I pulled you out of that pile of corpses, it wasn't so you could play these little tricks in front of me."

His powerful presence left Rorge struggling to breathe. Rorge swallowed with difficulty but stubbornly insisted, "I don't understand, boss. I did everything as you instructed."

"Oh?"

Corleone chuckled and regarded him with an amused expression. "Then did I instruct you to order food and wine on your own initiative, and then... deliberately draw those people's attention to me?"

At those words, cold sweat instantly soaked Rorge's back.

He had never imagined that Corleone would so easily see through his little ploy, intended as a slight test, in an instant!

"I'm sorry, Boss Corleone! I was wrong!"

Rorge took it on the chin, though. He immediately abandoned all resistance and dropped to his knees with a thud, moving so quickly that even Corleone almost failed to react.

He even drew a dagger and held it in both hands, raising it above his head to offer it to Corleone. "Please punish me!"

Corleone said nothing. He merely reached out and took the dagger unhurriedly.

After toying with it for a while, he suddenly turned his wrist slightly, slowly bringing the sharp blade toward Rorge's flat face.

Rorge instinctively flinched backward, as though some deeply buried terror had been stirred.

"Having your nose cut off... must have been painful."

Corleone spoke pointedly. "Life is full of misfortune."

"But you're fortunate, because pain isn't as irreversible as death."

As he spoke, that invisible pressure grew stronger and stronger, almost taking tangible form.

Rorge's breathing grew heavy and short. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and began trickling down his temples.

Yet every muscle in his body was taut, and he dared not move, terrified that the slightest movement would bring even worse consequences.

Just as that extreme mental pressure was about to drive Rorge mad, Corleone lifted his wrist and casually tossed the dagger back to him.

"You hurt me, Rorge."

There was no telling whether Corleone was pleased or angry from his voice. "You broke my heart. This is the first time."

"I'll remember it. I hope you will too."

"Do you understand?"

"Y-yes! Boss..."

"And another thing..."

Corleone looked at him coldly and reminded him, "From now on, address me as Lord Corleone."

"Yes! Lord Corleone!"

Rorge instantly straightened and answered loudly without thinking.

Only then did he feel a weight lift from him, and he hastily wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

But before he could fully relax, Corleone's voice sounded again.

"Now we can discuss something else."

"I'm very curious. Just what did you promise that Ralf, for a single sentence to be worth... a full thousand Gold Dragons?"