Chapter 91- Underground Arena

"Forger! You gotta come to the arena!" Vance said as soon as Rion opened the door, barely able to contain his excitement. "There's a pair of 1st-tier peak-stage strykers that are going to duel each other tonight at the Crimson Crown! Gather up your kilas and let's go bet!"

"Strykers, huh?" Rion raised an eyebrow, looking Vance whose face had excitement written all over it. "And what makes you think I want to waste my time watching two guys clobber each other?"

Vance gave him a knowing smirk. "Because you like money, and this is a golden opportunity. You know these duels can get unpredictable, and that's where the smart money comes in. C'mon, Forger. You could make a killing."

Rion leaned against the doorframe, his gaze shifting between the pile of books on his desk and Vance's enthusiastic grin. As tempting as the idea of making some quick cash sounded, he wasn't sure he had the energy for it.

Rion let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. "You're really pushing this, huh?"

Vance clasped his hands together, the very picture of exaggerated pleading. "Listen, Forger, I swear this isn't just about me wanting to gamble."

Rion shot him a flat look.

"Okay, it's mostly about that," Vance admitted with a grin. "But you can't tell me you don't see the opportunity here. Every time the others spar, you're right there, analyzing every move like it's some kind of puzzle." He pointed at Rion's desk. "But that's just scraps, Forger. This? This is the real deal. Two peak-stage 1st-tier strykers going all out, no holding back. You wouldn't wanna miss this."

Rion exhaled through his nose, glancing toward his desk. It was true—he spent plenty of time watching the other members train, studying their techniques, breaking down their strengths and weaknesses. Everyone developed in their own ways, and watching all the different powers clash against each other would and incorporating the best practices into his own style prove useful in future fights.

Still, he wasn't going to make this easy for Vance. "And what makes you so sure this fight is worth my time?"

Vance grinned, sensing the shift. "Because I know you have a dumb hobby of dissecting the moves people use during battle. This is the perfect chance to put that to use. And if you're right? We both walk away with full pockets."

Rion tapped his fingers against his arm, considering. A part of him was already picturing it—two high-level Strykers clashing, their techniques on full display. The only combat data he had about Peak-stage strykers was watching Stone in combat.

If he could witness others go head-to-head, it might give him valuable insights into their fighting styles, their limits, and their strategies. That kind of knowledge was worth more than just a few kilas.

But Vance wasn't done. "And let's not forget, Forger—this isn't just about money. This is about understanding the competition. These two might be affiliated with our rival groups. If we can get a good look at how they fight, their techniques, their weaknesses… Think of it as research."

Rion's lips twitched, almost forming a smile. Vance was beginning to know him too well. "Research, huh?" he said, his tone dry. "You're really stretching it now."

Vance shrugged, his grin widening. "Call it whatever you want. But you know I'm right. Besides, when was the last time you did something that wasn't buried in those books or hunched over that desk? You're gonna turn into a statue if you don't get out of here once in a while."

Rion glanced back at his desk, where stacks of books and scattered notes lay in organized chaos. Maybe Vance had a point. A break wouldn't hurt. And if he could gain some insight into peak-stage Strykers while he was at it and scope out the competition, all the better.

Rion sighed, shaking his head. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"And yet, here you are, about to grab your coat."

Rion muttered a curse under his breath but didn't stop as he reached for his jacket from the hook by the door. "If we lose, I'm taking it out of your cut."

Vance whooped in triumph, already leading the way. "Deal! Now let's go get rich, Forger!"

* * *

Cultivator battles were more than just sport; they were a thriving industry, deeply woven into the fabric of society. While laws strictly regulated the use of origin abilities, sanctioned combat arenas provided an outlet for those eager to test their strength and showcase their skills.

These battles drew crowds in the tens of thousands, ranging from casual fans seeking entertainment to dedicated analysts and scouts searching for the next rising star.

At the heart of this industry were the Cultivator Leagues, professional organizations that ranked and categorized fighters based on their abilities, achievements, and overall combat prowess. These leagues operated under strict guidelines, ensuring safety for both the participants and the spectators while still delivering high-intensity clashes that left audiences on the edge of their seats.

Athletes often trained rigorously under guilds, non-affiliated academies, and private sponsors, hoping to make a name for themselves in this brutal yet structured world.

All the recognized leagues followed an established rank system, with Bronze-rank athletes at the bottom and Platinum-rank athletes-who mostly consisted of 1st tier Peak-stage cultivators-reigning at the top. There were even rumors of secret competitions that featured 2nd tier cultivators but those rumors were unfounded.

Each rank had its own class of competitions, ranging from local skirmishes to grand championship battles that were broadcasted worldwide. For many, these fights were more than entertainment; they were a spectacle, a science, and for the competitors, a path to power, prestige, and wealth.

Sponsorships played a significant role in shaping the industry. Corporations, wealthy investors, and even government-backed organizations poured money into promising fighters, offering them the best resources, training facilities, and equipment in exchange for brand endorsements and exclusive contracts.

Betting houses thrived alongside the competitions, with spectators placing massive wagers on their favorite combatants, analyzing past performances, strengths, and weaknesses to turn a profit.

Yet, for all the excitement and grandeur of sanctioned cultivator battles, there were those who found them lacking. The leagues, despite their fierce reputation, had rules—rules designed to prevent excessive injury, to keep the playing field balanced, and to ensure that battles remained a contest of skill rather than a life-or-death struggle.

And while many appreciated the refinement of these structured fights, others craved something raw, something unrestricted.

That was where the underground arenas came in.

Beneath the bright lights and polished spectacle of the leagues, a darker, more brutal side of cultivator combat existed. These hidden arenas catered to a different kind of audience—those who wanted to witness fights where the rules were dictated by survival rather than regulations. There were no stage classes, no enforced safety measures, and certainly no referees calling a fight before things got too dangerous.

These undergound arenas were usually funded by high-stakes gamblers, crime syndicates, and shadowy figures who thrived in the lawless spaces between society's cracks. Fighters who entered these arenas often did so for different reasons.

Some sought the thrill of unrestricted combat, where they could push their abilities to the absolute limit. Others had no choice, forced to participate to pay off debts or secure enough money to survive. And then there were those who simply wanted blood—either to spill it or to revel in its spectacle.

Bets in these underground arenas dwarfed those placed in legal matches. With no oversight, odds could be manipulated, fights could be fixed, and deaths were not rare. The more violent and unpredictable a match, the higher the stakes, and the deeper the pockets of those willing to fund it.

Despite their illegal nature, these underground arenas were not just chaotic brawls. Some of the best fighters in the world had honed their craft in these hidden rings, learning techniques and strategies that would never be allowed in official battles.

For those who survived and thrived, the underground was either a stepping stone to greatness or a descent into a world from which there was no return.

Rion and Vance stepped into one such underground arena, The Crimson Crown arena, and the first thing that hit them was the noise—a cacophony of shouts, cheers, and the occasional roar of approval that reverberated through the air like a living thing.

The atmosphere was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and something metallic, a combination that made the air feel heavy, almost tangible. The dim lighting did little to soften the edges of the place; instead, it cast long shadows that flickered across the walls, giving the space a chaotic, almost predatory energy.

The arena itself was a massive, circular pit dug deep into the ground, its walls lined with rough stone and reinforced with steel beams that looked like they'd been welded together in a hurry. The floor of the pit was stained with dark patches that Rion didn't need to inspect too closely to identify.

Two fighters were locked in combat, their movements a blur of raw power and desperation. Unlike the polished, regulated duels of the sanctioned leagues, this was a brutal, no-holds-barred clash. There were no referees, no rules, and no mercy. Every strike was aimed to incapacitate, every move calculated to inflict maximum damage.

The crowd loved it.

The audience was packed tightly into rows of benches that sloped downward toward the pit, forming a natural amphitheater. The seating was crude, little more than wooden planks bolted together, but no one seemed to care.

As Coca Town was a place often filled with mercenaries and thrill seekers, the spectators were a mix of rough-looking men and women, their faces alight with excitement as they shouted, jeered, and threw their hands in the air.

Some were clearly seasoned gamblers, their eyes sharp and calculating as they watched the fight unfold, while others were there purely for the spectacle, their faces flushed with adrenaline. The energy was electric, almost overwhelming, and it was clear that this was a place where these people came to lose themselves in the chaos.

As Rion and Vance made their way through the crowd, they quickly found themselves bumping into people who looked like they belonged more in a cartel meeting than a sporting event.

These were the enforcers, the ones who kept order in a place where order was a relative concept. They were big, burly men with hard eyes and harder expressions, their arms crossed over their chests as they scanned the crowd.

One of them stepped forward, blocking their path with a presence that was both intimidating and oddly professional.

"Tickets," the man said, his voice low and gravelly. He didn't ask; he demanded.

Vance, ever the smooth talker, flashed a grin. "Yeah, we're here for the show. What's the deal?"

The enforcer eyed them for a moment, then gestured toward a small booth tucked into the corner. "We only sell all-day tickets here. 10 kila per ticket. 200 if you want VIP access. Private theater boxes are available, but you'll need to talk to the manager for that." His tone made it clear that he wasn't interested in negotiating.

Rion raised an eyebrow. "All-day tickets? But it's already night time?"

The enforcer shrugged, his expression unchanging. "Doesn't matter. You pay for the day. Take it or leave it."

"Regular tickets please. I'll pay for the both of us."

Vance sighed, reaching into his pocket for for the requested amount. He handed over the money, and the enforcer stepped aside, letting them pass. As they moved deeper into the arena, the noise grew louder, the crowd's energy more intense. They found a spot near the edge of the pit, close enough to see the fighters clearly but not so close that they risked getting caught in the chaos.

The two combatants in the pit were a sight to behold. One was a towering figure with muscles that looked like they'd been carved from stone, his movements powerful but slow, each qi-enhanced strike landing with the force of a sledgehammer.

The other was smaller, quicker, darting in and out of range with a speed that was inhuman. Their styles and abilities couldn't have been more different, but both were clearly powerful cultivators.

Mama mia....