[Timeline: 10 Days Before the Tournament]

[Location: Training Hall 4 – The "Old Gym"]

CRASH.

The head of a Clockwork Knight flew across the room, embedding itself in the far wall.

Alaric stood in the center of the arena, his chest heaving.

His knuckles were bruised, and his uniform was soaked in sweat. Around him lay the scrap metal remains of three Grade-3 training golems.

He had used but a Wooden Spoon instead of a sword.

"Time," Mozart called out, clicking his stopwatch.

Alaric collapsed onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Did I... did I break the spoon?"

Mozart walked over. He picked up the wooden spoon from Alaric's hand. It was dented, splintered, and cracked, but it was still in one piece.

"It is fractured," Mozart noted. "But at least it is not dust."

He looked at the destroyed knights.

Alaric had dismantled three armoured constructs using a kitchen utensil, focusing all his kinetic output into the tip without shattering the wood.

"Acceptable," Mozart nodded. "Quite the improvement Mr Ironheart."

He turned to the others.

Lukas was passed out in the corner. He had managed to light five candles without vaporizing them, though his eyebrows were singed off.

Elena was meditating, surrounded by a pile of perfectly threaded needles.

She looked exhausted but strangely calm. Her turbulent mana had settled into a sharp, focused hum.

"Go to the dorms," Mozart ordered. "Eat. Sleep, but remember not to touch anything fragile."

"I'm not sure if the school is going to take it out of my salary yet"

"Professor?" Alaric wheezed, sitting up. "Are we ready? For Nero?"

Mozart paused. He looked at the scrap metal on the floor.

"You are ready for the qualifiers," Mozart said enigmatically.

"Whether you can beat Nero... depends on how willing you are."

He turned and walked toward the exit, his coat billowing.

"Rest up. I have an errand to run in the Capital."

….......

[Location: The Imperial Capital – Lower District]

[The Gilded Rat Casino]

The Capital was a city of two faces. Above, the white stone spires of the nobility gleamed under magitech streetlamps.

Below, in the shadow of the great walls, the Lower District thrived on vice, smoke, and illegal mana trading.

The Gilded Rat was the crown jewel of the underground. It was a massive gambling den that served as the primary broker for the Imperial Betting Exchange.

The air inside was thick with cigar smoke and the scent of desperation.

CLACK. CLACK.

Roulette wheels spun. Dice rattled.

In the VIP section, a private booth was guarded by two massive Orc bouncers.

Inside the booth sat Garm, the Goblin Kingpin of the betting underworld.

He was smoking a cigar that cost more than a peasant's house, counting stacks of gold chips.

"Business is booming, boss," a lackey snickered.

"The odds for the Tournament are up. Every Noble House is betting on Prince Nero."

"Of course they are," Garm grunted, ash falling onto his silk vest.

"Nero is a monster. The odds are 1:1.05. There's no profit in it, but the Nobles use it to flex their loyalty to the Emperor."

"What about the bottom feeders?"

"Class F?" Garm laughed, a wheezing sound.

"The odds are 200:1. Only an idiot would throw money at that trash. The pool for them is empty."

KNOCK. KNOCK.

The heavy oak door to the booth vibrated.

The Orc bouncers stepped forward, axes drawn. "Private room! Get lost!"

The door instantly exploded.

Boom!

A singularity of Black Shadow formed in the center of the wood, twisting the fibers with crushing gravitational pressure.

The sturdy oak was sucked into the void, vanishing instantly.

A figure stepped through the empty space. He wore a pristine black suit, a high-collared coat, and a simple white mask that covered the upper half of his face.

"Good evening," the stranger said, his voice smooth and cold.

"I heard this is the place to make a bad investment."

Garm narrowed his eyes. "Who are you? You have five seconds before my boys turn you into paste."

The stranger ignored the Orcs. He walked to the table and sat down opposite the Goblin Kingpin.

"I am a teacher," the stranger said. "And I would like to place a bet."

Garm stared at him. Then he burst out laughing.

"A teacher? With what salary? You want to bet a month's wages on a gladiator match?"

The stranger reached into his coat. He pulled out a Spatial Bag.

He then poured it over the table.

CLATTER. THUD.

It wasn't gold coins. It was Platinum Bars. High-grade Mana Cores. Deeds to land in the Southern Trade District.

The pile of wealth hit the table with a sound that silenced the room. The table groaned under the weight.

Garm's cigar fell out of his mouth.

"That's..." Garm's eyes bulged. "That's fifty million gold. That's the annual budget of a High Duke."

"Liquidation assets," the stranger explained casually. "I sold everything. My stocks. My bonds. My house."

He pushed the mountain of wealth toward the center of the table.

"I want to put it all on one class."

Garm's hands trembled. He did the math instantly. Fifty million at 200:1 odds.

The payout would be Ten Billion Gold.

"You're insane," Garm whispered. "Who?"

The stranger smiled beneath his mask.

"Class F."

The room went dead silent.

"Class F?" Garm sputtered.

"The 'Hydra Squad'? They are fighting against the likes of Prince Nero! You're throwing fifty million gold into a furnace!"

"The odds," the stranger reminded him. "200 to 1. Correct?"

"Yes! But who pays out?" Garm panicked.

"If you win, which is impossible, my casino can't cover ten billion! That's more cash than the Guild has in the vault!"

"You don't have to cover it," the stranger said, leaning forward. Shadows danced around his fingers, heavy and suffocating.

"You are just the broker, Garm. You pool the bets into the Imperial Exchange. The payout comes from the losers."

The stranger pointed upward, toward the Noble District.

"Every Duke, Earl, and Baron is betting on Nero. The pool is overflowing with their gold. If Class F wins... we'll take their money."

Garm paused. He realized the stranger was right. The Nobles had bet trillions collectively on Nero to curry favor with the Imperial Family.

If a dark horse won, the Exchange would drain the Nobles' accounts to pay the winner.

It was a legal robbery of the aristocracy.

"You really think they can win?" Garm asked, sweating.

"I don't think," the stranger said. "I know."

He pushed the pile forward.

"Take the bet. Register it on the Exchange. Or I will find a broker who has a spine."

Garm's greed overpowered his fear. The commission alone on a 50 million gold bet would make him rich.

And since Class F was guaranteed to lose, the Nobles would never know.

"Done," Garm slammed his hand on the table.

"I take the bet! All of it! On Class F to win the Rookie King Title."

He quickly scribbled a magical contract, linking it to the central Imperial ledger.

"Sign here."

The stranger signed. [Shadow].

He stood up, adjusting his cuffs.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Garm."

…..........….

[Location: Outside the Casino]

Damien walked out into the cool night air of the Lower District.

He exhaled. His hands were shaking slightly.

"That was... exhilarating," Damien muttered. "Gambling really is an addiction."

He touched his communication crystal.

"Isabelle? Did you track the contract?"

"Confirmed, Young Master," Isabelle's voice came through.

"The bet is registered on the Imperial Exchange. The risk has been distributed across the twelve major Noble Houses betting on Nero."

She paused.

"Sir... ten billion gold. If we win, we will effectively drain the liquidity of the Capital's noble families. They won't be able to buy a loaf of bread without selling an estate."

"Good," Damien said coldly. "War is expensive. I'd rather spend their money than mine."

"However," she added dryly.

"If we lose, we are done for. The Guild will survive, but your personal accounts will be zero. We'll be eating instant noodles for the next century."

"Then we better not lose," Damien said.

He walked toward a weapon shop down the street.

"Isabelle, I need one last purchase. On credit."

"What is it?"

"Alaric needs a sword to survive the qualifiers," Damien said. "His wooden spoon won't last against live steel."

"Shall I ask hephestus and to make something"

"No," Damien corrected.

"Yes, just get him a Heavy Mythril Claymore. Something sturdy enough to last until the Semi-Finals. After that... he'll have to take the King's sword if he wants to keep fighting."

"Understood. Ordering 'The Anvil' from the dwarven smiths. It will be ready by the Opening Ceremony."

Damien looked up at the moon.

"The board is set, Isabelle. Now we just have to wait for the pieces to move."

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