Lady Brown: Final

The arena was already alive. No, seething before the announcer even touched the mic.

Metal bleachers rattled beneath stomping feet, the air was a furnace of heat, dust, and the ripe stink of too many gamblers packed too close. The crowd leaned forward as one, waiting.

“In the one corner—” The announcer’s voice cracked through the noise like a thunderclap.

“—the man. The myth. The ruler of Magic Fight. Eleven wins. Zero losses. Every single opponent… left broken, battered, and unable to stand when the dust settled.”

He let the pause hang, feeding the tension.

“The one and only… Maizo Magico!”

The eruption was instant. A tidal wave of noise. Stomps shook the stands. A chant rose—deep, rhythmic, rolling like storm clouds over an open plain:

“Double-M! Double-M!”

I could feel the vibration crawling up my boots into my bones.

“And in the other corner…” The announcer drew out the words until the air itself seemed to tighten.

“You must be wondering—what makes this fight different? Not just because we have the returning Pillar himself, Double-M… but because a stranger has walked into our house. A mystery fighter. Someone who came knocking on Magic Fight’s door with no name, no history—only a demand to get their hands dirty.”

The crowd leaned in. The noise dulled to a heavy, expectant hum.

“This mystery fighter,” the announcer said, his voice lowering into a growl, “cannot even use magic.”

He let the words drop like a blade.

“Yet here they stand, ready to challenge greatness. So let’s see if their fists can make up for what their soul lacks. Ladies and gentlemen—give it up for… Chetia!”

The name hung in the heat-thick air for a heartbeat—then came the confused murmurs, snickers, a few outright laughs.

“WOO! GO CHUCHU!” I cupped my hands and shouted, loud enough to carry across the silence.

Dozens of heads turned. Raised brows. Stares. A few muffled chuckles.

“What?” I shrugged. “I’m just cheering.”

“Place your bets now!”

The words were like throwing meat into a shark tank. The betting table was instantly swallowed in a frenzy of bodies, people shoving and shouting.

“Magic versus nothing? You gotta be kidding me!”

“Two hundred on Maizo, now!”

“Seventy on Maizo!”

The guy behind the table looked like he was drowning in coins and parchment, scrambling to keep up.

My eyes flicked up to the glass box overlooking the ring—the fight orchestrator’s perch. He was leaning on the window, smirking like a king watching a peasant march to the gallows. That bastard had picked his best fighter to turn Rilke into an easy payday.

I looked back toward her. Cloak still on, head bowed, face hidden. But even from here, I could feel the nervous energy rolling off her.

I grinned, threw her a thumbs up.

A tilt of the head—yeah, that was an eye roll. Probably.

I stood, the coins in my pouch clinking with each step. Time to make this interesting. I’d been saving for a moment like this—something worth risking it all on.

The crowd around the table parted just enough for me to slip through, the noise a constant hum of “Maizo this, Maizo that.”

The bettor didn’t even look up at first, still scribbling. “Alright, what’s your poison? Big money’s on Double-M, so unless you like losing—”

“Five hundred,” I said, dropping a bag stuffed to the brim with coin on the counter. “On Chetia.”

The air froze for half a beat before bursting into raucous laughter.

“You serious?” a man with a missing tooth barked.

“Should’ve just set your money on fire,” another said.

“That’s not a bet,” someone snorted, “that’s a donation.”

I leaned one elbow on the counter, let a slow smile spread. “See, that’s the thing. You’re all betting on what’s supposed to happen.”

I slid the betting slip into my pocket and straightened.

“I’m betting on what’s going to happen.”

And without waiting for their response, I turned and walked back toward my seat, the laughter following me like a bad smell.