High above the fighting pit, several men observed the carnage from a secluded viewing balcony. A man named Vargas wearing silk robes slammed his fist onto a polished wooden table, spilling dark wine over his ledgers.
"We are losing thousands of silver coins by the minute," Vargas complained, glaring down at the silver-haired boy. "Every single wager placed against him is a guaranteed loss. Who is this kid?"
A scarred man named Drustan sat beside Vargas, tapping his metal fingernails against a leather armrest. "He wears an academy uniform, yet he fights like a seasoned mercenary. We need to stop the bleeding before we go bankrupt."
A visibly malnourished man named Ren raised his brows and said, "He has been fighting for hours, he must be exhausted by now."
Vargas gestured toward the shadows at the back of the booth. "Send the Black Vipers down there. Crush his winning streak."
Drustan nodded and raised a hand to signal his guards.
