I can already hear the taps of the glass cane against the stone.

Even with the entire arena breathing around me, even with Zhang Xi channeling energy over my abdomen, even with Veric threatening half a dozen healers in a posture that says he’d carry out every word—that sound from the cane cuts through everything. It’s dry and rhythmic. Too elegant to be hurry, and too heavy to be calm.

Rahul Sharma is coming down.

Each strike of the cane against the stone sounds like one of the horsemen of the apocalypse, his thunder announcing the end of times.

The end of my time.

"Please... faster."

I grab Zhang Xi’s collar before thinking. Her eyes widen. In the same instant, I realize the mistake. If she understands exactly what’s coming, the fear could outweigh the reward. She could pull back. She could remember that no payment is worth a death sentence signed by Rahul Sharma.

I release the cloth.

"Sorry... just use your ability. Or I die..."

The reality is too simple to be comfortable. If Rahul gets close enough to see my actual state, he can simply conclude that I’m beyond saving and delay the treatment long enough to make that conclusion true. To him, I’m useful in two forms: kneeling or dead. A free man, popular, fresh off a victory against his personal champion, is an administrative error waiting to be fixed.

And I’ve just cost him reputation, even if I made him money.

The bookmakers probably profited massively, since the underdog won. Maybe the contract clauses are already paid. Maybe my name is running through the bleachers like a viral bet, a story too good to be controlled. Bards will turn it into a song before sundown and use it to fill taverns by the end of the week.

A public hero who doesn’t work for Sharma?

He isn’t going to accept that. Men at his altitude don’t share the spotlight. They borrow it, monetize it, and bury whoever held it last.

Zhang Xi’s trembling hands steady.

By my voice, she understands this isn’t only a healing. She doesn’t ask why. She just closes her eyes, joins her palms above my wound, and whispers:

"Susanoo’s Love."

The energy changes.

Before it was warmth. Now it’s a real current.

My entire body reacts as if it were dropped into the bottom of a river during a storm. Her healing doesn’t stitch the pain shut delicately. It runs over everything, forcing the body to remember its shape through the violence of water. A shock under the ocean—thousands of small impulses passing through muscle, bone, and nerve. Not to destroy. To force every piece of me to return to where it belongs.

The skill name almost makes me laugh, if laughing weren’t likely to split me in half with pain.

Susanoo, the chaotic god. God of waters in District 10, old Japan. A storm-name given to an ability that heals as if drowning death out of the body. There’s some bad irony in it, some joke Thirstfall would tell with pleasure, but I don’t have time to appreciate it.

What matters is that it’s working.

The void in my abdomen begins to close. The pain doesn’t disappear. It changes shape, stops being a death sentence, and turns into something bearable. Something that can still be paid later.

Then Rahul’s aura falls over us.

"STOP. NOW."

It isn’t just an order.

It’s the roar of a tiger inside the bones. The entire arena freezes. For a second, my own body tries to obey before my will catches up to disagree. The light in Zhang Xi’s hands wavers. She grits her teeth, arms trembling, and holds the ability for one more instant before letting it die slowly.

She fought his command.

That tells me a lot.

Rahul stops close enough that his shadow touches mine. He looks Zhang Xi over from head to toe, and his expression doesn’t change—but the temperature around us seems to drop.

"Cursed Silver Fangs..." he murmurs. Then his voice clears. "You dare defy me?"

Zhang Xi stays silent.

All the blood has drained from her face. She looks like a monk carved out of wax, kneeling between a nearly-dead man and another who can decide how many people leave this arena alive.

Sometimes Chaos Theory passively rolls a blessing instead of a curse.

And today I get it.

Silver Fangs is the parent guild of Silver Flow. In the future, Silver Flow surpasses its own parent and becomes the second-richest guild in Thirstfall, clearing old OXI from the air ducts of the city. That’s too big to ignore.

A huge idea crosses my mind. One of those ideas that rewrite a timeline until it can no longer be compared to the previous one.

I need to protect this girl.

And, if I’m smart, make her an ally.

I force my body up.

The world spins twice. Maybe three times. My vision darkens at the edges, so I slap myself across the face three times until my cheeks burn. The ribs still complain, the abdomen still pulls in a miserable way, but nothing feels immediately fatal anymore. An acceleration potion can handle the rest later.

Rahul expects me to look at him.

So I ignore Rahul Sharma completely.

I turn to the crowd and raise both arms in wide, exaggerated waves—too theatrical to carry any dignity. I’m not Veric, but I do my best in the stand-up category of recently-patched man. I add a small bow at the end, dramatic enough that even the dying ribs object to it. A few cheers rise from the bleachers. Hesitant. Then louder. Then loud.

My goal is to tell everyone: I beat a man stronger than me by one rank here, and I’m alive and well.

The corollary, unspoken but readable from any seat in the Oathring: And the King of Crime is standing one step behind me with his cane.

My squad stares at me as if I’ve lost the rest of my blood through my head.

But the answer is simple.

I’ve already punched Rahul in the face once using the public.

Why not twice?

As they say—what works for the goose works for the gander.