Chapter 18: The Target of Everyone's Arrows
The vast arena fell into an eerie silence, like a volcano on the verge of eruption. Then, as if reaching the breaking point, a deafening roar exploded from all directions. The sound surged like relentless waves, one crashing after another, converging into a mighty torrent that threatened to overturn the entire city of Florence:
How outrageously arrogant!
How utterly shameless!
How blatantly brazen!
How dare he?
The first two matches at least had some fighting, but in this third one, he didn’t even throw a punch—just pulled out a rose and surrendered outright?
If you didn’t know better, you’d think the illustrious “Black Enchantress” was here chasing after some man!
What a farce!
On the judging stand, Raymond’s eyes grew cold and stern as he fixed his gaze on the host. The sudden turn of events made him wonder whether one of his trusted subordinates was secretly scheming behind his back.
The host felt his throat burning, each breath like swallowing scorching air, and trembled as he stammered, “Boss, I swear to the gods, this person was definitely not arranged by me—I’m seeing him for the first time too! I honestly don’t know why Nephthys suddenly forfeited. This guy… this guy must be up to something strange!”
The host was on the verge of tears.
Raymond’s face darkened; after a few seconds of silence, he averted his gaze. Indeed, the host was never foolish enough to gamble with his own future. Yet, all this was unfolding right before his eyes—what on earth was going on?
He knew little about this so-called “Lord of Shadows,” but Nephthys was a consecrated maiden-in-training under the Battle Temple—the cult of Ares, god of war and combat.
Both the Battle Temple and the Supernatural Arena answered to the war god Ares, and Nephthys was considered one of their own. How could she surrender without cause?
Who exactly was this “Lord of Shadows”?
Raymond calmed himself. Now was not the time to pry into these mysteries. What mattered most was to stabilize the crowd and provide the spectators with an explanation.
If tonight’s incident spread outside, outsiders would surely suspect some shady dealings at the Supernatural Arena.
Beyond the fervent crowd in the stands, inquiries had already begun filtering in from the first two tiers of luxury boxes.
These were the people who truly troubled Raymond. The nobles were not concerned with trivial bets but could not tolerate being made a fool of.
To aristocrats, honor and dignity were paramount.
On the arena floor, Cohen was stunned by Nephthys’s abrupt surrender. He never expected her to forfeit without even fighting once. Wouldn’t this be pushing him straight into the lion’s den?
Now, not just the spectators but even he himself felt as if he were participating in a fixed match.
Cohen could only laugh bitterly. What was going on? He only wanted to quietly gain some experience points and level up, how did it suddenly come to this?
In a box on the second floor, a young noble gripped a delicate wine glass, his gaze dripping with arrogance and disdain. His hair was meticulously styled, a jewel-encrusted sword hung at his waist, and two alluring attendants flanked him.
He looked down on Cohen’s sudden fame with contempt:
“A mere Bronze Rank One, yet drawing such attention—Florence truly is living in the past!”
A footman standing beside him replied, “Just a bunch of idle nobodies seeking entertainment.”
The young noble’s eyes burned as he watched Nephthys approach the arena: “But that Nephthys is quite the prize. I wonder if she can be had.”
The footman’s heart skipped a beat. Hastily, he said, “Second young master, I heard this woman has ties to the Battle Temple. Better not stir trouble… We’re here to retrieve the ‘Elven Sacred Fruit’ for the eldest young master, so it’s best to keep a low profile.”
This young noble was none other than Sandro Gunter, the second son of the Duke of Ephion in the southern borderlands.
A flicker of resentment crossed Sandro’s eyes: “My eldest brother really has luck—lost an arm and still got the ‘Elven Sacred Fruit’ delivered. Why didn’t the queen just have him executed outright?”
The footman’s mouth twitched subtly, diverting the topic: “Second young master, look—the arena crowd is getting restless.”
In a grand VIP box on the first floor, Isabella’s eyes curved into crescent moons, her smile lighting up the entire room.
Nearby, Mr. Modo’s expression froze, his tone wary and uncertain: “Could it be that this guy actually bought off the Battle Temple’s maiden-in-training?”
As the Northwest Inspector of the Pale Wings, his intelligence network was swift; he knew Nephthys’s true identity.
Yet the more he knew, the less he understood.
Isabella’s smile faded; her lips parted softly:
“If he claims the maiden-in-training is his woman, I wouldn’t be surprised. This man harbors too many secrets—it makes one want to strip him bare and see what lies beneath.”
“Hmm? Raymond himself has entered the arena. Miss, shall we make a move? After all, we still have dealings with him,” Mr. Modo whispered, watching Raymond step into the arena.
Isabella shook her head. “Not yet. Let’s see how they handle it first.”
On the arena floor, Raymond approached Cohen, his eyes narrowed, radiating a dangerous aura as if about to strike.
Cohen’s gaze was as calm as a deep pool, unruffled, matching Raymond’s intensity.
Cohen’s composure surprised Raymond slightly, causing him to loosen his tension and speak slowly:
“Now is not the time for distractions. I don’t care how you did it, but you must find a way to quell this uproar. Otherwise, even if I let you leave, the entire crowd won’t allow it. Some of the people in the first tier are ones I dare not offend!”
Cohen pondered briefly, then chuckled softly:
“I want to say a few words.”
Raymond nodded subtly. Nearby, a staff member dressed in robes waved a wand, casting a spell to amplify Cohen’s voice.
Then, a legendary aura radiated from Cohen, rippling like a tempest, his overwhelming presence seeming to warp the air itself, suffocating all who breathed it in.
The arena fell instantly silent.
Cohen sneered inwardly. Why did the protagonist have to be so unlucky? He had only recently regained his memories, yet kept running into legendary-tier opponents. No one let him start by knocking out a few low-levels to build experience.
Surveying the fervent crowd, Cohen spoke coolly:
“I signed up for ten matches today and have fought three. Seven remain.
Since it seems you don’t want the officials to arrange them, then so be it. Everyone here—anyone of Rank One—come down and test for yourself whether my three consecutive wins are the result of cheating. How about that?”
At his words, the clamor in the arena quieted considerably.
Raymond’s eyes flickered. This was a good idea. If you don’t trust us, then you handle it yourself. Whoever has the confidence, step forward.