The betting table groaned under the weight of coin.

  Not metaphorically. Literally.

  Otwin laid the stack down with both hands, metal clinking and grinding against itself as it settled into a squat, ugly tower that drew every eye within ten paces. It was not subtle; it was not meant to be. This was not the careful probing bet from earlier in the night, or even the confident escalation that had followed Humbert’s first few victories.

  This was a statement.

  The bookie stared at the pile, then at Otwin, then back at the pile. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

  “You sure?” he asked, voice thin. “That’s… that’s a lot.”

  Otwin nodded once. No smile. No bravado. Just certainty.

  The house felt it.

  Whispers snapped through the men clustered nearby. Someone laughed nervously. Someone else cursed under their breath. A runner leaned in to murmur something urgent into the bookie’s ear. The odds board was hastily adjusted, chalk scraping fast and messy, numbers shifting in a way that screamed damage control.

  Otwin betting on Humbert had already cost the house dearly tonight. Every clean win, every sudden finish, had drained coin and confidence alike. This bet threatened to turn the night from bad to catastrophic.

  The bookie swallowed and took the money.

  Across the warehouse, Baron Tande attacked.

  He came out of the corner like a storm, boots digging furrows in the sand as he closed the distance on Humbert with vicious intent. There was no feeling-out process. No patience. Tande threw himself forward in a flurry of strikes, hands snapping out in tight arcs, elbows flashing, feet sliding into position with practiced precision.

  A jab. A cross. A hook aimed for the temple. A sharp knee that drove up toward the ribs.

  Humbert blocked.

  Forearms came up, absorbing the impact with dull, meaty sounds. He rolled with the blows that slipped through, shoulders turning, torso flexing as he let the force bleed off instead of fighting it. A punch clipped his chest. Another slammed into his guard. A knee struck his thigh and bounced off thick muscle.

  Humbert did not answer.

  The crowd roared at the aggression. They always did. To them, this looked like dominance. It looked like the champion proving why the stories were true.

  Baron Tande fed on it.

  “You see?” he barked between strikes, breath steady despite the pace. “You hide behind your size!”

  Another combination crashed into Humbert’s guard.

  “Big oaf!” Tande snarled. “It is hard to believe you beat my disciples!”

  Humbert stepped back a half pace, sand shifting under his heel. He raised his guard again and let another punch thud into his forearm. His face was impassive, eyes locked on Tande’s chest, reading movement and rhythm.

  Otwin felt the crowd tightening around the pit.

  Men leaned forward, mugs forgotten. Bets were shouted and rescinded in the same breath. The house’s runners hovered like nervous birds, watching the pit, watching Otwin, watching the flow of money with growing dread.

  Jordy moved.

  He slid away from his vantage point near the support beam and began drifting toward the upper tiers where the Black Dragon Combat Club’s men had gathered. His movement was unremarkable, lost in the churn of bodies shifting for a better view. He kept his hands visible, posture loose, eyes unfocused in a way that suggested boredom rather than intent.

  He was anything but bored.

  In the pit, Tande pressed harder.

  Strike after strike poured out of him now, a relentless cadence of blows designed to overwhelm and break. He mixed levels smoothly, switching from head to body and back again, forcing Humbert to adjust constantly. His footwork was sharp, angles clean, his breathing controlled. This was not a fraud swinging wildly.

  This was a skilled fighter.

  A hook slipped past Humbert’s guard and clipped his jaw. Another punch struck his shoulder. A knee thudded into his midsection with enough force to make the sand puff up around their feet.

  The crowd screamed approval.

  Humbert absorbed it all.

  He gave ground inch by inch, not retreating so much as allowing space to exist. His guard remained tight. His breathing remained steady. He did not rush. He did not panic. To an untrained eye, it looked like he was losing.

  Baron Tande thought so, too.

  “You feel it?” Tande taunted, stepping in again, driving a sharp elbow toward Humbert’s cheek. “That is my victory! And your life slipping away!”

  Humbert slipped the elbow by a hair’s breadth.

  Tande did not notice.

  Jordy was almost there now.

  He reached the edge of the cordoned platform and leaned in as if to watch the fight from a better angle. One of the Black Dragon men glanced at him, eyes flicking over Jordy’s clothes, his stance, his empty hands. Jordy offered a lazy grin and a shrug, the universal language of men who wanted to be entertained.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Another step.

  In the pit, Humbert exploded.

  It was not a wild charge. It was not a berserker rush.

  It was a decision.

  As Tande stepped in to throw another right, Humbert turned sharply, angling his body just enough to slip the punch past his shoulder. At the same time, he drove his left arm out in a short, vicious arc.

  The check hook landed clean.

  It snapped Tande’s head sideways with a sound like wood splitting. Spittle and sweat sprayed through the air as the champion staggered, balance suddenly uncertain.

  Before Tande could recover, Humbert followed.

  His hips turned, leg coming up in a brutal round kick that slammed into Tande’s outer thigh. The strike landed directly on the IT band, crushing nerve and muscle alike.

  Tande’s leg buckled.

  Pain exploded up his side, white-hot and disorienting. His foot scraped uselessly through the sand as his body tried and failed to obey him. He stumbled back, barely staying upright, face contorted in shock as sensation vanished beneath the pain.

  The crowd gasped.

  “You dare!” Tande shouted, voice cracking with fury and disbelief.

  He staggered another step back and turned his head, eyes searching frantically through the stands.

  Ben.

  His gaze locked onto his bodyguard, and relief surged through him.

  “I will teach you!” Tande roared, forcing himself upright, one hand steadying his useless leg. “It is time for the Dim Mak!”

  The words sent a thrill through the crowd.

  Tande raised his hands and formed the symbol, fingers twisting into the shape he had practiced a thousand times in front of mirrors and disciples alike. The gesture was precise. Ritualized. Powerful in its familiarity.

  Humbert stepped forward.

  Tande struck.

  He reached out and tapped Humbert lightly on the chest, fingertips barely making contact, already bracing himself for the moment when Ben would unleash the magic. When the big man’s chest would burst. When the legend would be made real again.

  Nothing happened.

  Humbert blinked.

  Then he laughed.

  It was a deep, rolling sound that cut through the sudden hush like thunder.

  “Fake-ass McDojo fu,” Humbert said.

  Baron Tande’s smile vanished.

  He turned his head sharply toward the stands.

  Ben was not there.

  Instead, Jordy stood behind him, one arm hooked casually around the mage’s neck, a knife pressed lightly but unmistakably against Ben’s throat. Jordy winked.

  Tande’s world tilted.

  Humbert’s fist crashed into his head.

  The impact was catastrophic.

  Pain exploded through Tande’s skull, shattering thought and vision alike. His legs gave out entirely as the force spun him sideways and hurled him into the sand. The world became noise and color and agony, all sense of control ripped away in an instant.

  The crowd erupted.

  Otwin closed his hand around the last of his winnings, the roar of the warehouse washing over him as the house finally, irrevocably, lost.

  In the pit, Baron Tande lay broken, his myth smashed as completely as his body.

  And Humbert stood over him, breathing hard, very real.

  ***

  The warehouse was quiet now.

  An hour earlier, it had been chaos. Shouting, bodies moving, money changing hands too fast to track. Now the upper offices sat still, the thick walls swallowing the distant sounds of cleanup below. Lanterns burned low. The air smelled faintly of old oil, blood scrubbed half clean, and cooling metal.

  Baron Tande lay back in a wide reclining chair that had not been designed for dignity.

  A slab of raw steak covered most of his face, dark red and glistening, pressed against swelling that had turned his features into a map of purple and yellow bruises. One eye was barely open. The other stared at the ceiling with dull resentment. Every breath came with a soft, pained hiss.

  Across from him, Humbert stood holding a man off the floor by one arm.

  The man was small. Not frail, but slight, built for numbers and speed rather than strength. His shoes dangled a good six inches above the floor, legs twitching uselessly as he tried to find footing that did not exist. His hands were bound behind his back. Sweat poured down his face in thin lines, soaking the collar of his once-neat shirt.

  Humbert was definitely holding him against his will.

  The man cleared his throat and spoke anyway, voice tight but practiced, the tone of someone who had learned long ago that talking fast was sometimes the only shield he had.

  “So,” he said, forcing a thin smile, “my Lord Baron… Mr. Hagermann bet quite the sum on the esteemed Mr. Humbertson here.” He craned his head just enough to indicate Humbert, who did not react. “To win. Of course. And of course, the house had odds on you, per your instructions. And, well…”

  He swallowed.

  “The house can’t come close to covering Mr. Hagermann’s winnings.”

  Otwin leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded, posture relaxed in a way that suggested he was anything but.

  “It’s actually Mr. Grumplestein’s winnings,” Otwin said calmly.

  Baron Tande shifted, the steak sliding slightly as he turned his head.

  “Grump?” he croaked. His voice was thick and distorted. “You’re here as part of his crew?”

  Ben stood near the wall, hands loose at his sides, posture familiar to anyone who had spent time in a real unit. He looked older than he had in his fighting pit days. Leaner. More settled.

  “They were old Army comrades,” Ben said. “Same outfit. I tried to warn you about Humbert.”

  Jordy let out a short laugh and shook his head.

  “When I saw you with Tande,” he said, “I knew what was up. His Dim Mak was just you hitting someone with a ranged attack when he touched them.”

  Ben nodded once, unashamed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I send energy into them. Disrupt blood flow to the brain. Just enough to knock them out. No permanent damage.”

  He tilted his head slightly toward Tande.

  “Then doofus over there tells them how merciful he is when they wake up.”

  Baron Tande let out a strangled sound beneath the steak.

  “You… you betray me?” he shouted, trying to sit up and failing. “I’ve been paying you well for years!”

  Otwin’s eyes flicked toward him.

  “Keep your temper,” Otwin said mildly, “or Humbert will squish you.”

  Humbert nodded solemnly and gave the man he was holding a firm shake.

  The little bookie yelped, teeth clicking together as his feet swung wildly.

  Otwin continued without raising his voice.

  “So. To cover the Black Dragon Combat Club’s debt to the Grumplestein Organization, we’re taking you over.”

  Baron Tande groaned, the sound long and defeated.

  “We’re also taking Ben Oncels,” Otwin went on. “He works for us now. Welcome back to the Chiliad Five Seven.”

  Ben’s expression softened, just slightly.

  “It’s good to be back,” he said.

  For a moment, the warehouse office felt different.

  Jordy stepped forward and clapped Ben on the shoulder with genuine warmth.

  “It’ll be good to have an Academy-trained War Mage with us, brother,” he said. “Been a while since we had proper magical support who actually knew what they were doing.”

  Ben snorted.

  “Just no more knives to my throat, okay?” he said. “I don’t need a shave that close.”

  Humbert laughed, the sound deep and rolling, and gave the little factor another casual shake. The man whimpered and went limp, deciding that resistance was no longer a productive strategy.

  Otwin watched the room.

  A fallen champion. A reclaimed comrade. A criminal organization quietly changing hands without a single shot fired in the aftermath.

  This was what power looked like when it was applied cleanly.

  “Ben,” Otwin said, “you remember the Five Seven. How we operate.”

  Ben nodded. “Chain of trust. Clear roles. No theatrics.”

  His eyes flicked to Tande.

  “That part I won’t miss.”

  Baron Tande turned his head away, the steak sliding down his cheek.

  The bookie whimpered again as Humbert adjusted his grip.

  Outside the office, the last of the crowd was gone. The pit was empty. The myth of the Deadliest Man Alive lay bleeding under a piece of meat.

  Inside, the Chiliad Five Seven was whole again.

  At least a little more than it had been before.

  Humbert laughed again, shaking the little man like a rag doll as the lights hummed softly overhead.

  I really appreciate all of you who are reading, and particularly appreciate those who comment and give ratings.

  I thought this was going to be a 14 chapter book, but the response so far as had me reevaluate and reoutline, adding another significant amount to it.

  As of right now we are AROUND 2/3s of the way through. However, now I am planning a Second Book!

  Seriously, your response has been great. I cannot do this without you readers. :) My success in writing is due to YOU.

  So if you'd like to be a bigger part of that success, please comment, follow, and leave a rating. I want to hear from everyone. :)

  Here is a link to the mainpage for anyone who would like to rate this story I have put so much of myself into.

  The next chapter Is named "Battle on the Border! When Steam Forts Collide" as a little sneak peek at what is up next!