Chapter 15: Match-Fixing?

“Are you here to register for the competition?”

The arena staff regarded Cohen with a scrutinizing gaze, their eyes wandering over his figure.

There was no other reason—Cohen’s attire was simply too peculiar.

He wore an exquisitely tailored noble’s outfit, and on top of that, he had a mask covering his face. Judging by his voice, he was quite young.

Those who came to the arena to compete were usually low-ranking professionals eager for attention—none dressed so elegantly and discreetly like him. It struck them as odd.

After a moment’s thought, the staff settled on the idea that he must be a noble scion sneaking out of his home for some excitement.

Cohen paid no heed to their gaze and spoke calmly, “Yes. May I ask what the registration process is?”

The staff stepped aside, revealing a reddish-brown cylindrical device behind them, saying, “Place your hand on it first to scan your personal level.”

Cohen complied, pressing his palm against the cylinder, feeling a faint suction from beneath his hand.

Soon, a dimly glowing “1” appeared on the cylinder’s surface, followed by a golden “16” beside it.

Seeing the numbers, the staff became even more convinced of their earlier guess.

Sixteen years old? Just barely an adult, and a first-tier novice who had just broken through to the extraordinary?

Well, it was as they thought—a young nobleman out here to experience life.

The staff handed Cohen two badges as per routine.

One was a bronze badge with a large number one engraved on it; the other was blank.

Cohen accepted them and pinned them to his chest. Meanwhile, the staff pulled out a registration form and asked, “Name?”

Cohen’s eyes flickered slightly as he considered before replying, “Lord of Shadows.”

The staff gave a strange smile. Not even willing to give his real name—indeed, a runaway noble seeking thrills.

He proceeded with the usual questions: “How many matches do you plan to enter today?”

Cohen asked calmly, “What is the maximum number of matches allowed in a day?”

The staff was momentarily stunned but answered with some surprise, “Up to ten matches. But I must remind you, each match requires a deposit of ten gold coins, which becomes the opponent’s prize if you lose and is non-refundable.”

Cohen said nothing further. He pulled out a pouch and handed it over.

The staff stared at the pouch filled with a hundred gold coins as if looking at a rare specimen—a novice rookie entering ten matches on their first day. He hoped this young man wouldn’t come back crying for a refund.

After some busy moments at the counter, the staff said, “Alright, ‘Lord of Shadows,’ your information has been recorded. The arena will automatically match you with opponents. Keep an eye on the big screen or listen for the announcer’s voice. If you fail to enter the ring within two minutes after the match begins, you’ll forfeit.”

Cohen nodded and left, returning to the upper stands where the previous match had just concluded.

A monk from the “Sanda Sect” had, after a hard-fought battle, subdued a fierce mastiff. Yet, his rugged body bore numerous gaping wounds from the dog’s teeth—ragged edges peeling back to reveal chilling muscles and torn tendons.

The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, which only heightened the crowd’s excitement.

In the stands, shouts of anger and cheers mingled as many tossed yellow betting slips into the arena.

It was clear that those who had lost bets were venting their frustration—the arena offered betting lines for every match, a vital source of income alongside ticket sales.

After watching a few matches, Cohen lost interest and quietly began to meditate.

Night descended like a vast black silk sheet slowly unfurling from the horizon, swallowing the light. Yet the arena grew livelier.

The once spacious stands gradually filled as nobles and commoners, having eaten and drunk their fill, came to the arena to release their pent-up energy.

Brilliant magical lamps bathed the arena in daylight-like brightness.

Finally, Cohen heard the announcer’s resonant voice:

“Next match: Anderson versus… Lord of Shadows!”

Already waiting at the players’ entrance, Cohen strode directly into the arena.

He narrowed his eyes, assessing his first opponent.

The man named Anderson was lean, clad in a worn black leather jacket. His messy, greasy hair drooped over his forehead, nearly obscuring his small eyes, which gleamed with greed and wariness.

“A drifter, perhaps?”

Cohen glanced at the man’s badge—same bronze low tier as his own, with a record of three losses and no wins.

Not very formidable, but then again, Cohen was a rookie himself, and the system wouldn’t match him with a particularly strong opponent.

From Anderson’s perspective, seeing Cohen’s noble attire, mask, and zero record, the same suspicion as the staff arose—could this kid be some rich young master out here just to experience life?

A secret smile appeared on his face; it seemed his first victory was at hand.

The crowd booed loudly as the two entered the arena.

A rookie who had never won a match against a drifter who had never won either—this fight promised little entertainment.

Seeing the subdued atmosphere, the experienced announcer spoke up appropriately:

“Oh, dear audience, it seems we have a new member at the Florence Arena today. This friend, going by the nickname ‘Lord of Shadows,’ certainly sounds imposing. Let’s see if his skill matches his name—let’s all look forward to it!”

There were five minutes of preparation before the official match began, allowing players to acclimate and bettors to place wagers.

As a novice with no wins and an unstable aura, Cohen was naturally underestimated. Most bets favored the seemingly stronger drifter.

At the sound of the whistle, the match officially commenced.

Having fought in three previous matches, Anderson reacted swiftly, drawing a sharp dagger from his waist. His slender legs pushed off lightly, approaching Cohen with the agility of a night cat.

Cohen’s eyes flickered. Though Anderson’s movements were nimble, his powerful soul perception revealed countless flaws.

Ten meters… five meters…

Seeing Cohen remain motionless, Anderson misread his opponent’s calm as nervousness and fear.

His heart lifted with joy as he slashed the dagger through the air, aiming straight for Cohen’s vital spots.

The crowd grew bored—only ten seconds had passed since the whistle. Was the match about to end so quickly?

Just as the blade was about to slice Cohen’s throat, he leaned back slightly, calmly evading the seemingly certain strike.

Anderson’s body jolted as if Cohen’s retreat had been precisely calculated. Suddenly, a sharp pain exploded in his abdomen, and his consciousness faded. The dagger fell from his hand.

Instant knockout!

A punch from Cohen, whose “Bronze Body” training had reached 50%, was no match for the physically weak drifter.

The sudden reversal sparked outrage among the crowd, who shouted, “Fixed match! Fixed match!”

Most had not seen how Cohen dodged and assumed Anderson had deliberately held back.

Looking at Cohen’s masked face and noble garb, and knowing nobles rarely fought themselves in the arena, suspicions arose.

Could this be some rich heir who had paid for a stunt match?

Fueled by their inherent resentment and hostility toward the noble class, the spectators’ discontent toward Cohen reached a fever pitch!