A Desperate Gamble

Fin adjusted his collar as he stepped into the dimly lit establishment. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and desperation. Men hunched over tables, their murmured conversations blending with the distant clatter of dice and the occasional burst of cruel laughter. The scent of cheap cologne and old liquor clung to the walls, stale and suffocating.

The man behind the desk barely glanced up from his ledger. He was broad-shouldered with slicked-back hair, his fingers tapping idly against the desk. A gold chain glinted at his throat.

"You're looking for a loan?" he asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

Fin nodded, forcing his voice to stay steady. "Yeah. How much interest?"

The man smirked and slid a contract across the table. "Thirty percent. Weekly."

Fin blinked, the number slamming into him like a punch to the gut. "That's absurd! That's daylight robbery!"

A low chuckle rippled through the room. One of the goons standing by the entrance cracked his knuckles and stepped forward. "Stupid guy, we're loan sharks, not your local bank."

Fin clenched his fists. His mother needed this money, but at these rates, he'd be ruined before he could even pay off the first installment. He grabbed the contract and ripped it in half.

"Forget it."

Before he could turn, rough hands seized his shoulders. The goons shoved him toward the door, their laughter mocking him. "We don't do refunds, either. Don't come crawling back when you're desperate."

The door slammed shut behind him. The cold night air did little to cool his anger. He shoved his hands into his pockets and trudged down the street. His mind raced. If not them, then who?

The Plan

Fin wandered the streets, his frustration growing with each step. He needed money, and fast. Traditional loans were out of the question, and the sharks had shut the door on him. There had to be another way.

His mind drifted back to RAM Online. He had heard whispers before—rumors of an underground betting ring where high-stakes gamblers wagered real money on official matches. The game's PvP tournaments were legitimate, but the betting that thrived in the shadows? That was where the real money flowed.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through old forums and encrypted chat groups. Then he found it.

The Pit.

A private network where high-rollers bet on players in RAM Online's official matches. Some of the best fighters in the game had made fortunes here—if they played it right. The trick was simple: enter a high-stakes match, bet on yourself through The Pit, then win.

It was risky. It was also his only shot.

Fin exhaled sharply, forming the plan in his head. He would take out a bigger loan—one he could actually pay back—then enter an official match. He'd use the underground network to bet everything on himself.

But first, he had to get back into fighting shape.

The Arena Awakens

Fin sat before his computer, the dim glow of the monitor reflecting off his tense face. He inhaled sharply. If he was going to take a risk, he would do it on his terms. His hands hovered over the keyboard before he logged into RAM Online.

Welcome back, Kuma.

His character, clad in outdated armor and wielding an old but familiar blade, stood in the Level 80-90 PvP arena. The coliseum was nearly empty at this hour, the only players present either practicing or waiting for a worthy opponent. Fin cracked his knuckles.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let's see if I still got it."

The first two fights were brutal defeats. His first opponent, an Assassin, danced around him, striking from angles Fin couldn't react to in time. His blade felt slow, his blocks mistimed. K.O.

The second fight lasted longer, but a Monk overwhelmed him with speed and brutal combos. His own movements felt sluggish, his instincts a step behind. K.O.

Fin sat back, his fingers clenched around the edge of his desk. His breathing was heavy, frustration bubbling up inside him. I used to go 50-0, 70-0. Now, he was losing. Badly. His hands felt stiff. His reaction time had dulled. Was he past his prime? He was thirty-four. Maybe he just wasn't cut out for this anymore.

His eyes drifted to his hands. No. He clenched them into fists. I refuse to believe that. He wasn't some washed-up has-been. He had fought thousands of battles. He just had to remember how to fight again.

He entered another match. A flashy Rogue named Zephyr. The fight began, and immediately, Zephyr dashed forward, blades flashing. Fin sidestepped at the last second, watching as the dagger's edge barely grazed past his cheek. Too predictable.

Zephyr grinned, thinking he had the advantage. He unleashed a flurry of strikes, rapid and aggressive. Fin dodged with precise movements, watching, analyzing. The Rogue was fast but left openings. The moment Zephyr committed to an overhead strike, Fin parried and countered with a brutal slash to the ribs.

Critical Hit!

Zephyr staggered back, stunned. Fin moved in, delivering a swift, calculated series of attacks, ending the duel with a clean decapitation.

K.O.!

Fin exhaled, his fingers trembling slightly. The fight had been close at first, but he had adapted, countered, and won. Just like old times.

The next few fights were brutal. A heavily armored Knight named Ogram, a spell-slinging Battle Mage, an unpredictable Berserker with wild attacks—each one pushed Fin to his limits. He dodged, analyzed, and adapted. He used his outdated gear to his advantage, throwing off opponents who underestimated him.

Onlookers began to gather. Whispers filled the arena chat.

"Who the hell is this guy?"

"That's Kuma? Never heard of him."

"Look at his gear! That sword's been outdated for years. How is he winning?"

Fighters lined up, eager to test him. He fought them all. He lost a few—his record now standing at 50-3—but every time he lost, he learned. Adjusted. Came back stronger. The wins started stacking up again. The way he moved—like a ghost, like an Assassin despite being a Swordsman—earned him attention.

By the time he finally looked at the clock, the sun was already rising.

"Oh no." He groaned, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. His hands trembled from exhaustion, his body stiff from sitting too long. When was the last time I blinked? His chair creaked as he pushed himself up, knees protesting.

He needed to get ready for work.

And the arena was watching.