"I get it," Rowan rcer said, lifting his brow slightly.
He understood Evan Clarke’s warning imdiately. It wasn’t concern about the match itself. It was concern about consequences. In this world, how you won often mattered more than whether you won at all.
Rowan didn’t take offense. Evan ant well.
Still, it didn’t change Rowan’s mindset.
This world was unfamiliar territory. Different rules. Different players. That was precisely why Rowan had been careful since the mont he stepped into it. He kept his edge muted, his reactions asured, his victories clean and unremarkable. Not because he was afraid to show strength, but because unnecessary attention invited unnecessary variables.
Caution was a strategy, not a shackle.
If things went wrong, truly wrong, the cost to Rowan would be limited. He had contingencies layered behind contingencies. Losing here wouldn’t end him. It would only end one approach.
And if soone decided to make trouble for him?
Rowan wasn’t the type to swallow that quietly.
He was perfectly willing to let people underestimate him. But if they crossed the line, he had no intention of losing sleep over how much strength he revealed while dealing with it.
So far, no one here felt like a genuine threat.
"Still," Evan said, eyes flicking sideways as he lowered his voice, "if you joined Iron Front, none of this would matter. Fight however you want. Even if you beat Ben Ward, his family wouldn’t dare touch you."
Evan wasn’t wrong. Iron Front carried weight. Enough weight to crush problems before they ford.
Rowan considered it for half a second, then shook his head.
"I’m not ruling it out," he said calmly. "If I decide to join an organization, Iron Front will be my first call."
He left it there. Promises made too early had a way of becoming chains.
Marcus Hale returned a mont later, unfolding his slip as he walked.
"Who’d you get?" Rowan asked.
"Xiao... no, he goes by Shawn Hale now," Marcus replied, checking the na again. "Guy who specializes in soul displacent."
Evan raised an eyebrow. "That’s inconvenient."
"Manageable," Rowan said. "You’ve got experience projecting consciousness. You won’t panic if he tries sothing clever."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Fair point."
He glanced at Rowan. "How do you know that, anyway?"
Rowan shrugged. "Evan ntioned it earlier."
Evan froze, then scratched the back of his head. "Did I? Huh. Guess I forgot."
Before Marcus could press further, Rowan turned his head toward the path leading into the courtyard.
"Speak of the devil," he said.
Evan Clarke and Fiona Barlow were approaching together.
Evan waved. "You two done drawing?"
"Just now," Marcus replied. "Who did you get?"
Evan’s expression twisted into sothing between amusent and pity. "You’re not going to like this."
He turned to Rowan. "You should probably prepare to console him."
Rowan looked at Evan. "Console who?"
Evan clapped a hand on his own shoulder. "."
Fiona spoke flatly. "He drew Daniel Sterling."
Rowan paused.
"That bad?" he asked.
Evan grimaced. "Sterling’s family specializes in sealing techniques. Fast activation. No setup. They lock your internal flow directly. You don’t even get ti to realize what happened."
Rowan nodded once. "Unpleasant."
Evan sighed. "That’s one word for it."
Before anyone could respond, a clear voice carried across the grounds.
"It’s getting late," said a man in ceremonial robes standing at the front of the gathering. "Accommodation has been arranged. Follow the guides to your assigned quarters."
Two officials stepped forward, gesturing for the competitors to follow.
"Let’s go," Rowan said.
They rged into the crowd heading toward the lodging area.
They hadn’t gone far when a heavyset man hurried up beside Rowan, holding a tablet with a grin that was far too practiced to be innocent.
"Rowan, right?" the man said. "Na’s Aureo. I run numbers. Thought you might be interested."
Rowan took the tablet without hesitation. "Let see."
Aureo was one of the more reliable information brokers floating around the tournant. Rowan had noticed him early. Loud, friendly, observant. The kind of person who knew everything without looking like he was trying.
Rowan scanned the odds.
This wasn’t betting on individual matches. It was betting on the final winner.
Rowan’s na sat comfortably near the bottom.
Forty to one.
"That figures," Rowan muttered.
His first-round win hadn’t impressed anyone important. Three unknown independents didn’t move markets.
At the top of the list sat the obvious favorites. Big nas. Backed nas. Nas people trusted.
Ben Ward’s odds were ten to one.
Marcus Hale sat at twenty.
Fiona Barlow at thirty.
Evan Clarke, sohow, was a hundred to one.
Rowan handed the tablet back. "I’ll pass."
Aureo blinked. "You sure? Long odds pay big."
"I don’t need the money," Rowan said.
That part was true. Rowan had more funds sitting untouched than most people here would see in a lifeti. Years of stipend transfers, family accounts, and scholarships he barely used. His expenses were minimal. His balance wasn’t.
He turned and held the tablet out to Marcus. "You might want to look."
Marcus scanned the screen, then shook his head imdiately. "No chance. That’s my entire savings on the line."
Rowan leaned in slightly and lowered his voice.
"Marcus," he said, "trust ."
Marcus frowned. "Trust you... how?"
"Bet everything on ."
Marcus stared at him.
"All of it?" he asked.
"All of it," Rowan repeated evenly. "If you win, you walk away with the payout. If you lose, I reimburse you."
Marcus hesitated.
This wasn’t impulse. It was calculation.
They’d sparred more than once. Every ti ended evenly. Too evenly. Marcus had noticed it before but never voiced it. Rowan always seed to stop exactly where he needed to stop.
As if he were asuring himself.
Marcus exhaled sharply. "You’d better not be ssing with ."
Rowan smiled faintly. "I don’t joke about other people’s money."
After a long mont, Marcus pulled out his phone and transferred the funds.
Three thousand.
When it was done, he looked up, half-nervous, half-excited.
"That’s everything," he said. "If this goes wrong, you owe more than a drink."
Rowan chuckled softly. "Deal."
Marcus shook his head, muttering to himself. "If this actually works..."
He didn’t finish the sentence.
But he was already imagining it.
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