It was pointless to panic over suppositions. If Yasin had truly seen me with the resistance, we wouldn’t be having this somewhat amicable conversation. Whatever unease I’d shown up to now could easily be chalked up to him tailing me through the city.

  “If you really are who you say you are, you must be an important man. So why follow me halfway across your city?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

  “I had a conversation with our mutual friend, Lucien, and happened to spot you nearby. Thought it might be a good opportunity to propose a deal—one that could benefit us both.”

  If he was here to make deals, maybe I was overthinking things. I wasn’t usually this paranoid. Must’ve been the stress, or maybe there was something in the local water. It would explain a few things.

  “What kind of deal?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard about your success in the arena. Lucien vouched for your skills, and now you’ve surprised even me. How did you spot me, by the way?”

  “You made a lot of noise for a stealth class,” I replied dryly.

  “The noise was intentional. I wanted to see how you’d react,” he said.

  “Well, I’m glad I passed your little test,” I said, ignoring the original question entirely.

  “I guess everyone has their secrets,” he said with a shrug. “It only makes me more confident about my proposal.”

  “And what exactly is that proposal?”

  “You’re already making a name for yourself. Word has it betting on you is through the roof for the third round. The ‘nobody mercenary with an underrated class’ storyline is irresistible to the public.”

  I ignored the thin insult. “Let me guess, you’re fixing matches?”

  He laughed. “We manage the tournament. Why wouldn’t we profit from the betting? Who do you think sets most of the odds?”

  “So, you want me to lose my next match?”

  “No, no, that’s far too soon. We need to build you up first. I’ll make sure your next three matches are against fighters who’ll give you a challenge. We need close matches so don’t incapacitate them in the first seconds, ok? After that, in the semifinals, you take a fall. By then, everyone will expect you to go all the way, and the bets will be heavily in your favor.”

  Since my riot plan had fallen through, I didn’t mind the idea of throwing a match, but I wasn’t about to lose out financially. “It’s a nice plan, but I intended to reach the finals. How do I get compensated?”

  “You’ll get a cut of the bets. Trust me, it’ll be far more than the prize money you’d miss out on.”

  I feigned consideration. “You know, right now, you’re just a random guy accosting me in the night. If I’m going to trust you, I’ll need a sizable advance.”

  He paused, likely his turn to pretend he was weighing my demand. “Done.” he answered.

  He pulled out a pouch and handed it to me. “Ten gold coins, just for listening,” he said, his tone calm but assured.

  I opened it to check, and sure enough, it was all there. Ten gold coins—each worth a hundred dinari. And this was just for showing up. If this was only the starting fee, the final payout would be enormous. No wonder people fixed matches back home; money like this was nearly impossible to resist.

  “You’ll receive two hundred after the fifth match and the other half once you lose in the semi-final,” he continued.

  The total would be twice the prize money for winning the entire tournament. My grin must’ve been visible even in the low light because he extended his hand, confident that I was already sold.

  As I shook it, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a serious note. “Now, I trust I don’t need to explain the consequences of double-crossing us to someone with your intelligence.”

  For a moment, I thought he’d skip the obligatory threat, but honestly, I’d have felt cheated if he had. “No need to worry,” I replied. “Fame’s not exactly my priority, if that’s your concern. Too much fame is bad for business.”

  He smiled faintly. “Lucien said you were a pragmatic man. I’m glad to see he was right.”

  He turned to leave, but paused for one final warning. “We won’t be meeting again, so long as you do your part. The next payment will be waiting in your room after your fifth match.”

  And just like that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving me holding a lot of gold for doing nothing... yet.

  Sleep didn’t come easily that night. Whether it was the stress catching up with me or just a random bout of restlessness, I couldn’t tell. By morning, I was groggy and barely coherent as the waiter—or whatever they called themselves here—brought in my breakfast. I squinted at the plate, struggling to keep my eyes open. Without a menu, every morning meal was a gamble. Sometimes it worked out. Today wasn’t one of those days.

  On the plate sat a sausage-like lump, clearly more fat than meat. Surrounding it were slices of the region’s staple vegetable: a bitter, tasteless tuber that made me long for actual potatoes. Completing the ensemble were literal weeds I’d seen growing by the roadside. I wasn’t picky by nature, but this meal tested my limits. I considered conjuring bread to escape the monotony, but the focus required wasn’t something my half-asleep brain could manage.

  Still, They had a famine outside of the city so I spent the next few minutes feeling bad about my fussiness. It made me smile remembering my childhood where surprise I was a fussy eater. We weren’t exactly poor, but you had to make the most of anything. So the food was like vegetable soup and potato stew most of the time. I obviously hated anything stew or soup related and would eat a spoon of it, then drink a mouthful of water to wash the taste off. Mom loved to tell that story. I smiled at the thought, but the nostalgia didn’t make the sausage any more edible.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  After choking down the meal with more water than necessary, I tried shifting my thoughts to something productive...but that only added to my stress. I was grateful the spy had specifically mentioned throwing the match in the semifinal. If he’d said the sixth or fifth fight instead, I couldn’t have trusted myself to remember it correctly amidst everything else.

  Finishing my meal—or enduring it—I headed to the arena. The fight wasn’t for hours, but I hated not knowing the exact time. Pocket watches apparently weren’t a thing in this world. Everything was measured in vague terms like "midday" or "afternoon," which drove me nuts. It made everyone seem perpetually late.

  Maybe I had to take it slower. Between six-hour shifts as a palace guard, competing in the arena, coordinating with the resistance, preparing for the heist that was likely happening today, and now getting entangled with bookies fixing matches, I was stretched thin.

  Were my opponents today likely to be paid off? Probably not. They’d said I wouldn’t see the first part of the money until I actually made it to the semi-final, so there’d be no point in wasting gold just yet. Still, it was a shame three easy matches didn’t sound half bad. Unfortunately, if I started slacking off, they might notice, and keeping up appearances was still a priority.

  At least I had the day off, thanks to yet another holiday. This town seemed to have an endless supply of them. Sure, weekends weren’t a thing here, and with the kingdom in its current state, the holidays weren’t exactly cause for celebration. But it felt like every other day, there was some new occasion being observed. Honestly, at this rate, if we needed to sneak into the castle, we wouldn’t have to wait long for a holiday when staffing was at a minimum.

  Of course, "minimal" here still meant a few hundred people. But that’s where my plan really shone. To quell a riot, the guards would have to reroute more than half of their forces. If the timing coincided with a holiday, the number of people left at the castle would shrink to fewer than a hundred.

  I shook my head, realizing I’d been complaining internally for the better part of the morning. It wasn’t a bad day—just an annoyingly mediocre one. The kind of day where nothing went wrong, but nothing went right either, and you had to grit your teeth and push through anyway.

  At least the arena had its own charm. I wasn’t exactly a sports enthusiast, but I’d always enjoyed cheering for a team and having a drink every now and then. This was the closest equivalent in this world. Even better, they had vendors weaving through the crowd, shouting out their wares with catchy phrases, offering an artisanal touch to the whole experience.

  The fights themselves had become more engaging now that I had a decent idea of what everyone might bring to the table. Plus, it was the third round, so the competition was starting to get serious, filled with capable opponents. The fights were numbered, and before I knew it, my time was approaching.

  As I made my way to the fighters' entrance, I spotted my opponent sitting alone. Most combatants liked to chat or banter before their matches—it was tradition and made the eventual victory or defeat all the more entertaining. Not wanting to break with custom, I decided to approach him. From his leather outfit and lack of a visible weapon, I guessed he was a rogue of some sort. Unfortunately, that wasn’t much help. The rogue section in the arena guidebook had been by far the longest, filled with countless variations. Sure, they all carried daggers and thrived in the shadows, but as an old man had mentioned a few days ago, they usually struggled in a brightly lit arena with no obstacles to hide behind.

  That meant he had to be one of the more exotic types. “So, a rogue? Daring choice, isn’t it?” I said as I approached.

  “Ah, the Lightning Man, here in the flesh,” he replied smoothly. “I half-expected you wouldn’t show, given how rogues tend to counter casters.”

  “If I were in your shoes, I’d be praying to Otravos for a solar eclipse or something,” I shot back. “Otherwise, you might get more beauty sleep than you intended today.”

  “If your spells actually manage to hit me, I’ll welcome the nap. My only concern is my hand slipping and accidentally hitting something vital with my daggers.”

  He didn’t seem to know about my shield, which wasn’t a good sign. But if he had the speed typical of rogues, I could still make this work. “Then I’ll pray for you to have a steady hand,” I said with a grin.

  He smirked. “Thanks, you do look like you need that beauty sleep more than I do.”

  That one actually stung a bit. Unfortunately, the opening gates cut off my chance to respond, leaving him with the last word.

  My usual opening Lightning Bolt was too slow—he was on me in seconds, hurling two or three knives while slashing with his dagger. He must’ve expected me to have a shield because the moment his first flurry didn’t do much, he came at me again without hesitation. I launched spells in his direction, fully aware I’d miss, just to keep some distance.

  After his third relentless chain of attacks, he slowed down and hesitated, clearly trying to reevaluate his strategy. Then he started making odd hand gestures, almost like a mage casting spells. I wracked my brain, trying to remember if any exotic rogue subclass had spellcasting abilities, but I drew a blank. I vaguely recalled skimming over that section in the rogue handbook, amused by something about it. If it hadn’t worried me then, it couldn’t have been too threatening.

  His attacks weren’t doing much damage to my shield, and the fight seemed to settle into a slower rhythm. I figured I could finish this without resorting to the slow-time spell. I began casting quicksand, and the sudden shift caught him off guard. As he tried to escape, one of his legs got trapped. I hesitated for a moment before firing another spell, giving him a chance to react. Sure enough, he crouched low at the last second, avoiding the blast even while stuck.

  With a few precise dagger slashes, he freed his leg, but I didn’t let up. I alternated between hurling Lightning Bolts and destabilizing the ground beneath him with more quicksand. He went into full defensive mode, dodging and weaving, but it was only a matter of time before fatigue set in.

  I thought I had him when he stumbled, but then he unleashed something I hadn’t seen before. His image blurred, then split into two, then four, and before long, there were ten identical versions of him surrounding me. I admit, I was caught off guard. The illusions were so fluid and lifelike that I hesitated, mesmerized by the way they morphed out of his form.

  Suddenly, his attacks felt heavier against my shield. He must’ve switched to poison—the familiar sluggishness began to creep in. Worse, it wasn’t just him. The illusions, while not full clones, were clearly enhancing his strikes. The weight on my shield was growing faster than expected. Not as bad as if I were fighting ten actual rogues, but still enough to wear me down.

  I couldn’t drag this out any longer. If I didn’t act soon, I’d have to resort to the time-slowing spell. Instead, I focused on an overcharged Lightning Arc, pouring everything into it to extend its range. When I unleashed it, the arc spread in a wide 360-degree sweep, sparking and crackling as it fanned out. The farther it went, the weaker it became, but it did its job. One of the illusions stumbled, its graceful movements faltering mid-somersault. That was him.

  The disruption gave me just enough time to connect another quicksand spell. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I fired a Lightning Bolt the moment he was trapped, and it struck. The illusions vanished instantly, and he collapsed to the ground, unmoving.

  The crowd erupted into cheers. They roared even louder when I raised my hand and sent the first bolt into the air. The roar became louder at the second spell and they must have expected the third one, as the noises became deafening.