Hundreds of contingencies cycled through my head before I even set foot in the Oathring. I have to stay one step ahead of my own death sentence, cutely nicknamed Chaos Theory.

A man comes through the crowd. A human corridor forms automatically as he passes. He’s in a wheelchair, pushed by a sexy woman behind him.

"Who the hell does this guy think he is?" Veric mutters.

"Shut up. Or we’ll both be dead before you finish the next word."

I know exactly who he is, and I can feel his energy clearly. Rahul Sharma. Rank SS for now. Future Rank SSS. His class order is unknown to everyone outside his inner circle, and he sits in that wheelchair only because he chooses to.

Rahul Sharma carries a slender, elegant silhouette. He wears immaculately tailored suits in shades of purple. His black hair is fine, full, and perfectly sculpted, matching his deep brown skin tone. His gaze is sharp, analytical, deep enough to read three layers down through whatever you say to him. His long fingers grip a glass cane. The object functions less as a walking aid and more like a monarch’s scepter. His movements are slow, calculated, and theatrical.

He’s the crime king of Azure Prime. One of the heads of the Deepwarden.

Officially, he isn’t part of the guild. Practically, he’s one of their largest allies. Rahul Sharma is the founder of the fourth-largest guild in Thirstfall, the Patala Syndicate. The vast majority of its members are honorable men. The top of the pyramid is something else entirely—the criminal lattice that runs every shadow business in Thirstfall.

"Well. Well. What have we here today?" Rahul says calmly, rising from his wheelchair and walking up to stand directly in front of me. "The fresh meat seems to be breaking the house."

He has to look up at me. He’s barely five foot four.

"An honor to meet you, Mister Sharma." I greet him with formal cordiality.

The moment I say ’Mister Sharma’, Veric rips his mask off, almost too fast for the eye to follow. A swallowed curse escapes through his teeth. "Shit..."

Of course he knows. He grew up at the King’s table. He’s been hearing the name Sharma in his father’s strategic briefings since before he could pronounce it correctly. Maybe he just didn’t picture the face.

Rahul glances at him and lets a small sarcastic smile lift one corner of his mouth, recognizing the King’s son. Then I watch his eyes scan our clothes, searching for the Crest of Azurea. He finds all of them.

I can tell, because his killing aura immediately drops down to merely oppressive. He sits back down in the wheelchair.

"I see you recognized me before His Most Excellent Highness here did." He taps the glass cane gently against the floor three times. The silence in the arena is absolute now. "Who are you?"

"Just a Diver. No fame. No prestige."

"And what is a Diver who calls himself so insignificant doing wearing a Crest of Azurea and walking with the prince? Don’t test me, boy."

"We attend the same academy. The King protects his son’s friends."

"Hm. I see."

He turns the cane idly in his fingers. The glass catches the lantern light.

"Well. The case is this. You’re costing me money. You clearly aren’t at the level this Oathring is designed for."

"With all due respect, Mister Sharma, the Oathring is public." Oliver speaks up, citing one of the Ocean’s Law’s own ground rules. As if power couldn’t monopolize whatever it wanted just by existing.

Rahul looks at Oliver. His face doesn’t move.

"Are you challenging me?"

"Not at all, Mister Sharma. Nobody here is challenging you. I take full responsibility for everything." I cut in immediately, before Oliver can dig us a deeper hole. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

Rahul rises from the wheelchair again.

This time, the rise itself is the threat. The cane lifts a hair off the ground in his fingers, and the air around him compresses by half a degree. He walks the three steps to me without hurry. The aura is doing all of the talking. Every spectator within a ten-meter radius has stopped breathing without realizing it.

He stops a foot from my chest and tilts his head up just enough to look me directly in the eye. He smells faintly of imported tobacco and something cleaner underneath it. Glass-polish, maybe. The aura presses on my sternum from the inside, an invisible hand resting against my heart, reminding it that beating at all is a privilege he’s currently extending.

"I need you to leave. Now. Or I will not be responsible for what follows."

He turns. Starts heading back to the chair.

I stop him before he sits.

"I have a proposal for you, Mister Sharma. One that could make you a great deal of money."

The oppressive aura drops instantly. It’s incredible how loudly money speaks. For men like Rahul Sharma, every other consideration—pride, dignity, even threat—comes second to the smell of profit.

"You have thirty seconds."

"What if I gave you the results of the next three fights? The house bet would be a guaranteed win."

"Continue. Where are you going with this?"

"Oliver here is going to win the next fight." I pat Oliver on the shoulder. "After that, I fight. Then a team battle."

"Interesting. But I’m not interested."

He gestures to the woman to start pushing the wheelchair away. Done with us.

I have one card left. I throw it down before the wheels turn.

"To sweeten the cash flow, I’ll fight a Rank C. Your choice of opponent."

Rahul raises a hand. The woman stops.

He turns to me again, carefully now. The glass cane spins once in his fingers. His sharp gaze travels across my face, peeling back layers I’d rather he didn’t see. Whatever calculation is happening behind those eyes, it isn’t fast. It’s careful.

He laughs low and maliciously. The cane spins a second time in his hand.

"It seems I’ve found someone brave enough to bet against me. Do you dare?"