Kay Gool's betting station had been completely overwhelmed and submerged beneath a surging tide of eager Outer Sect disciples, the crowd pressing in from all sides with such density that the bookmaker himself had become barely visible amid the mass of bodies. Everyone was shouting over each other, desperate to place their wagers before the odds changed or the match began, creating a cacophony of excited voices that blended into an almost unintelligible roar of speculation and anticipation.
"The sixth match on Category A Arena—that's Senior Brother Deane Doome fighting?! Is that really him?" one voice rose above the chaos with obvious excitement and disbelief.
"I'm betting on Senior Brother Deane Doome to win! Here's 358 D-$tones—count them carefully!" Another disciple thrust a heavy pouch forward, nearly knocking over his neighbors in his eagerness to place the bet.
"Wait, hold on a moment—who exactly is Senior Brother Doome's opponent in this match? Do we know anything about him?" A more cautious voice attempted to inject some strategic thinking into the frenzy.
"Who cares who the opponent is? It doesn't matter in the slightest! Whoever he is, he definitely won't be any match for Senior Brother Deane Doome. That's absolutely certain! I'm betting 737 D-$tones on Deane to win!" The response was dismissive and confident, brooking no doubt about the outcome.
"Exactly right! Senior Brother Doome is a first-rate powerhouse on our Ghost Shade Peak, absolutely one of the strongest Qi Refinement expert we have! His opponent isn't even worth considering or analyzing—the result is already determined!" another enthusiastic supporter chimed in.
"Well, you can't be too absolutist about these things. However..." someone interjected with a more measured tone, trying to maintain some semblance of analytical rigor.
"Look, I've already reviewed the bracket assignments and checked who drew lots for which arenas. I specifically looked for the few senior brothers and senior sisters whose cultivation and combat skills might actually match Senior Brother Deane's level, and not a single one of them was assigned to Category A Arena. They're all fighting on different platforms. So realistically speaking, this match is a foregone conclusion. You could close your eyes and bet on Senior Brother Doome without any risk whatsoever—it's that certain."
The group continued placing their bets with infectious enthusiasm, confidence radiating from every transaction. Then, as Kay presented them with their betting receipts and they read the listed odds, a collective note of complaint arose.
"Wait dude... sixty-to-one? These odds are ridiculously low! You're barely offering any payout at all for what should be easy money!"
"Excuse me sir, you said you think the odds are too low? Then I'm sorry, I have to kindly ask you to leave! Nobody's forcing anyone to place the bet!" Kay snapped back with obvious irritation, his patience worn thin by the constant stream of complaints about his carefully calculated odds structure.
"Next customer please! Let's keep this line moving!" His tone made clear he had no interest in negotiating or explaining his business decisions to every petty gambler who thought they deserved better terms.
The truth was that Kay couldn't offer betting opportunities for every single preliminary match—doing so would expose him to catastrophic financial risk. After all, certain matchups were so lopsided that the outcome required no analysis or insight whatsoever. When a seventh-layer Qi Refinement cultivator faced a ninth-layer opponent, anyone who wasn't a complete idiot could immediately identify who would win. If he opened betting for every such mismatch, taking wagers on obvious results, he'd quickly find himself hemorrhaging Spirit $tones to the point of bankruptcy.
Kay's operation could only remain profitable by being selective about which matches he'd accept bets on, focusing on fights where genuine uncertainty existed.
However, this particular sixth match on Category A Arena presented a different situation that fell into a gray area. Both competitors were at the Ninth Layer of Qi Refinement Stage—the same cultivation level, which technically suggested a potentially competitive fight.
More significantly, Deane Doome was one of Ghost Shade Peak's few genuine elite fighters, someone with a formidable reputation built over years of demonstrated combat excellence.
The powerful man had come to Kay Gool's station earlier and essentially forced him to accept a bet on his own victory, putting the bookmaker in an impossible position. If Kay had refused to take Deane's wager, if he'd suggested that a fighter of such caliber wasn't worth offering odds on, he'd have insulted a powerful cultivator and potentially earned dangerous enmity. More practically, refusing to engage with high-profile matches would damage his reputation as a serious bookmaker and might result in sect officials shutting down his operation entirely.
So he'd been forced to accept Deane Doome's bet despite knowing it would cost him money, and now he had to manage the resulting flood of follow-on wagers from Outer Sect disciples who all shared the same obvious conclusion about who would win.
This match was virtually guaranteed to result in financial losses for Kay Gool's operation. The overwhelming majority of bets were coming in on Deane Doome's side—entirely reasonable given his reputation and demonstrated abilities—which meant the bookmaker would be paying out to numerous winners while collecting almost nothing from the losing side of the ledger.
If not for that bizarre 10k D$t wager from the beauty Sun Elaine plus the silly 12k D$t from Lordi Payne had placed on himself earlier—a massive bet that would almost certainly result in Lordi losing his entire fortune when he inevitably got crushed, providing Kay Gool with a windfall that would cover most of the losses from other payouts—the bookmaker would actually be operating at a net loss for this entire day of preliminary rounds.
The thing was all the profit Kay had accumulated from earlier matches wouldn't be sufficient to cover what he'd have to pay out when Deane Doome won. And yet these ungrateful moron bettors standing before him had the audacity to complain that his odds weren't generous enough! How truly annoying these sect comrades were!
"No no no! Wait! Brother Kay, of course I'm going to bet! Why wouldn't I take free money when it's being offered?" The disciples who'd been complaining about the odds quickly reversed course, recognizing that even modest profits were still profits. They laughed among themselves, already counting their winnings before the match even began.
"Even if the payout is smaller than we'd like, it's still Spirit $tones gained for essentially zero risk. We'd be fools to pass up guaranteed earnings just because the margin isn't as large as we'd prefer!"
Standing at the outer edge of this frenzied crowd, carefully observing the proceedings from a position where he could see and hear without being crushed by the press of bodies, Lordi found himself frowning with growing concern as he absorbed the implications of what he was overhearing.
Deane Doome…?
That was his assigned opponent's name? This information triggered immediate anxiety because the name was completely unfamiliar to him—which was precisely the problem.
Previously, when that helpful manager from Alchemy Peak's Hall of General Affairs had spent two full days educating Lordi about the current state of the Outer Sect and its social dynamics, that lady Melisy had specifically provided detailed profiles of the most prominent and dangerous cultivators currently making names for themselves.
She'd discussed at length the several heaven-blessed prodigies who were attracting the most attention and recognition, disciples whose reputations had spread throughout the sect due to exceptional demonstrations of talent, strength, and potential. Donovan Vladez, the Mister First Dominator, had been mentioned extensively, for instance—that particular cultivator wielded the Bone Eroding Fist, a restraint art spoken of in hushed, dreadful tones. It was said that his strikes carried a creeping, insidious decay that bypassed mere flesh and bones—a poison for the very foundation of a cultivator's being. The most flawless Jade-tier Bone Skeletal structure, painstakingly refined through years of Bone Tempering Art, was no sanctuary against it. His power did not shatter; it corroded, leaving the proudest defenses pitted and brittle from within.
To speak of his combat prowess was to speak of inevitable conclusions. In the Gworm Abyss, he was a tempest of calculated ruin, his every movement a lesson in devastating efficiency. He did not simply defeat any sect comrades stood at his way; he dominated them, etching his superiority so deeply that it was now accepted doctrine: among the vast sea of talent in the Outer Sect, Donovan Vladez stood upon a solitary peak, a fighter without peer in his generation.
Several others had been similarly profiled, each one analyzed in terms of their strengths, weaknesses, fighting styles, and probability of advancing deep into the competition. But throughout those extensive briefings covering dozens of notable disciples, not once had Melisy mentioned a person named Deane Doome.
This absence of information could mean several different things, none of them particularly comforting. Perhaps that Alchemy Peak manager had simply forgotten to mention Deane—an oversight where a relevant name had slipped through the cracks of an otherwise comprehensive briefing. Alternatively, maybe Deane Doome had no interest whatsoever in alchemy skill and pharmaceutical work, never visiting Alchemy Peak or interacting with its residents, which would explain why people from that mountain peak might be genuinely unaware of his existence and reputation despite his apparent prominence on Ghost Shade Peak.
Since this cultivation world was large enough and specialized enough that such information gaps could certainly exist between different communities.
Regardless of the specific explanation, the current situation for Lordi remained concerning. After all, there was an old saying that carried substantial wisdom: where there's smoke, there's fire, and great reputations aren't built on nothing.
The fact that so many Outer Sect disciples were expressing such absolute confidence in Deane Doome's inevitable victory, the way people spoke his name with reverence and certainty, suggested this was someone genuinely formidable who commanded respect through demonstrated capability rather than empty boasting.
With these concerning thoughts filling his mind, Lordi began working his way through the packed crowd toward Kay Gool's betting station. He'd originally intended to wager every single Spirit $tone he currently possessed on his own victory. However, given what he'd just learned about his opponent's reputation and the universal certainty that Deane Doome would win easily, Lordi reconsidered that maximalist strategy. Caution and prudence suddenly seemed more appropriate than reckless confidence.
Thus, Lordi decided he'd bet 5,000 Spirit $tones instead.
Finally reaching the front of the line through persistent effort, Lordi addressed the harried bookmaker directly. "Category A Arena, sixth match. I'm placing a wager on Lordi Payne to win."
As spoke, he withdrew a hefty leather coin purse from his storage pouch and set it on the table with an audible clunk that immediately drew attention from nearby bettors. The weight of the pouch spoke volumes about its contents before Kay Gool even opened it.
The moment Lordi made this announcement and the surrounding disciples registered both the size of his wager and the specific bet he was making, a wave of shocked reaction rippled through the immediate vicinity. Multiple heads turned to stare at him with expressions ranging from astonishment to bewilderment to outright mockery. "That many?! Did you hear that? This man just bet such amount of money on the nobody!"
"Wait, who exactly is this Lordi Payne person anyway? That name sounds vaguely familiar but I can't place it. Has anyone actually heard of him before today?"
"The surname is Payne... hmm, could he possibly be related to Honine Payne? Maybe they're clan relatives from the same family?" someone speculated, trying to establish context for the unknown name.
"Bwahahaha! Honine Payne? You mean that pathetic fuck from Deerspring Town's Payne clan? What kind of joke family is that supposed to be? They're literally nobodies, completely insignificant! Even if their clan cheif himself stepped onto that platform to face Senior Brother Doome, even if their strongest fighter showed up, it would just be throwing his life away uselessly! There's no universe where anyone from that worthless shabby town could compete!" The contempt in this speaker's voice was absolute and unrestrained.
"Just ignore that man—don't let him get under your skin," Another voice interjected from a different section of the crowd. The man got a big beard. He smiled at Lordi, his tone carrying warmth certainty and the tone of someone who believed in him.
The big beard casually put one hand on Lordi's shoulder, and said enthusiastically, "Brother, look. I just know this too well. You probably saw that this Lordi Payne nobody has extremely high odds—significantly better payout ratios than betting on Deane Doome or any of the other favorites with reasonable chances of actually winning their preliminary matches. Just like me 10 years ago, from the previous Grand Outer Sect Tournament, I literally take a huge gamble on some nobody with the massive longshot hoping to get lucky."
The beard man sighed and continued, "People do this sometimes during tournaments, you see it every competition cycle. They throw money at huge underdogs with astronomical odds, betting on miracles and praying that somehow, against all probability and common sense, their chosen dark horse manages to pull off an upset victory that would generate absolutely massive windfalls if it somehow occurred. It's not a smart strategy by any reasonable risk assessment, but it's not completely insane either—just extremely optimistic gambling by someone who apparently prefers the dream of huge returns over the security of modest but reliable profits from safer bets."
But even that relatively charitable interpretation of Lordi's betting decision was immediately challenged by a third voice that couldn't contain its derision and wanted to ensure everyone understood just how absolutely stupid the bet actually was.
"Puff... calling this 'taking a gamble' is way too generous, honestly. That phrasing implies there's at least some small probability of success, some tiny mathematical chance that justifies the risk even if the odds are terrible. This isn't gambling on low probability outcomes where you might get lucky—this is literally throwing Spirit $tones into the deepest part of the ocean and watching them sink straight to the bottom where they'll never be recovered! This is burning $tones for warmth when you're standing next to a perfectly functional fireplace!"
"Yeah. There's no fucking chance whatsoever of this bet paying out, zero possibility that this unknown nobody is going to beat Deane Doome who's been favored to dominate his bracket since before registration even opened. That amount of $tone is just completely gone, utterly wasted on a fantasy outcome that will never, ever materialize no matter how much that fool wishes it would!"
The commentary continued in similar veins, with various spectators offering their own theories about Lordi's mental state, financial situation, or decision-making capabilities, none of them particularly flattering and most suggesting he'd suffered some kind of recent head injury or spiritual deviation that had impaired his judgment to catastrophic degrees.
Although Lordi deliberately tuned out most of the chorus of mockery and dismissive commentary surrounding him on all sides, consciously choosing not to engage with people whose opinions ultimately didn't matter, he couldn't completely block out the ambient noise or remain totally unaffected by the public ridicule being heaped on what everyone perceived as a catastrophically stupid decision.
Lordi gave a grateful nod at the man who defend his bet, his face quickly retuned to that expression of calm indifference that he'd practiced since his joined in the demonic sect—the neutral mask that suggested he was completely unbothered by others' opinions and totally confident in his choices—but internally, beneath that composed exterior where no one could observe his actual emotional state, his thoughts churned with considerably more concern and anxiety than his outward appearance suggested.
The beard man received Lordi's nod with a wink. He leaned closer and said in a low voice. "Listen bro. If you've genuinely got so many Spirit $tones lying around that you literally don't know what to do with them all, if you're so desperately wealthy that you're looking for creative ways to throw money away, why not just donate some of that excess directly to me instead of wasting it on this ridiculous betting nonsense?"
"I promise I'll put your generous contribution to much better use than you will by watching it all disappear into a losing bet that has absolutely no chance of paying out! At least if you give it to me, someone benefits from your wealth instead of it just vanishing into the bookmaker's coffers for nothing!"
The mockery was delivered with a broad grin, the speaker obviously not seriously making suggestion or actually sharing any information but rather enjoying the opportunity to publicly ridicule someone making such a spectacularly foolish decision that it invited commentary from everyone within earshot.
Several other disciples standing nearby laughed at the stunned expression Lordi, apparently finding it hilarious that anyone would bet such enormous sums on someone as unremarkable and unknown as Lordi Payne when far safer options with actual chances of success were readily available.
While the crowd continued chattering among themselves about the incredible foolishness they'd just witnessed and speculating about what kind of mental deficiency might explain such catastrophically poor judgment, Kay Gool had been efficiently completing the necessary paperwork with the practiced speed.
The bookmaker calculated the odds with quick mental arithmetic that didn't require verification, filled out an official betting receipt with neat handwriting that remained legible despite his speed, recorded the transaction in his master ledger where all wagers were tracked for later settlement, and stamped everything with the appropriate seals that would prevent forgery or disputes about what had actually been agreed upon.
When Kay finally finished and slid the completed betting receipt across the table toward Lordi with a slight smirk, Lordi accepted the document and quickly scanned the listed information to verify everything was accurate.
His eyes immediately focused on the odds notation printed clearly on the receipt, the numbers that would govern how much he'd collect if his bet actually paid out. Betting on Deane Doome to win his preliminary match: sixty-to-one payout ratio.
That was actually quite low by tournament betting standards, reflecting the bookmaker's assessment that Doome was such an overwhelming favorite that betting on him represented essentially free money with minimal risk, so the payout had to be kept relatively unattractive.
But then Lordi's gaze shifted to the second line, the one that mattered far more to his personal financial future. Betting on himself—on Lordi Payne, the nobody underdog that everyone seemed convinced would be crushed—to somehow pull off an upset victory: twenty-to-one payout ratio.
Hmm… What… ?
Lordi's mind immediately performed the arithmetic almost automatically, years of Earth education making basic calculations nearly reflexive even when he was stressed or distracted, and something about those numbers struck him as deeply suspicious and fundamentally unfair.
The spread between those two ratios was fucking forty—a massive, enormous differential that represented pure profit for this Kay Gool.
The math ratios were inconsistent with each other in ways that revealed Kay Gool was absolutely gouging both sides of the bet to maximize his take regardless of outcome. Where exactly did that forty-point spread disappear to? The question answered itself immediately—into Kay Gool's personal coffers obviously.
Fuck this thief!
Goddamn motherfucker bookie!
Lordi thought with sharp internal irritation even as he maintained his outwardly calm expression and carefully folded the receipt that made of skin.
After carefully securing his betting receipt in his storage pouch, Lordi extracted himself from the crowd surrounding Kay Gool's betting station as quickly as his patience and the press of bodies would allow, pushing back through the mass of disciples who were still chattering excitedly about various wagers and odds and predictions.
If he stayed within easy speaking distance of all these disciples for even a few more minutes, the entire crowd would start treating him like he was a complete idiot who needed their kind, helpful guidance—and worse, scammers would likely start offering earnest advice about dealing with whatever good way to run his money.
——
Hey there, wonderful reader!
Guess what? I heard a party today—because it's Axel's birthday! 🎉
I just wanted to send a massive, confetti-filled THANK YOU for your amazing, long-term support of my humble little story. It means the absolute world to me.
So! As a tiny token of my gratitude, this special update chapter is exclusively for you.
I've been so excited that I started writing it from the moment I opened my eyes this morning. Coffee in one hand, keyboard under the other—all for you!
Wishing you the most fantastic, fun-filled, wonderful birthday ever. May your day be as awesome as you are.
Here's to you, Axel—thank you for being such an incredible part of this journey. Have the absolute best one!
With all my warmth and gratitude,
YoungPeasant 💖