NOVPUB
Chapter 45: The Bet And A Blade
Five days had passed since the whispers started. Five days of misdirection, staged arguments, bribed gossipers, and whispered rumors spread from taverns to temples, from whorehouses to high-district.
The city’s faith in Ian’s strength had plummeted like a corpse in a river.
Now, three cloaked figures stood atop a crumbling rooftop overlooking the heart of Esgard.
The moonlight draped the slate tiles in cold silver, and the city below beat with life—unaware of the storm brewing above.
Ian stood on the ledge, arms crossed, the cold breeze tugging at the edge of his cloak. Beside him, Eli leaned against a broken chimney, golden eyes obscured beneath his hood. And between them, sharp as a needle in a noble’s parlor, stood The Black Rat.
Despite his street name, the Rat dressed like a nobleman lost in the wrong district—black gloves, neatly pressed trousers, a wine-colored vest under a tailored longcoat.
His bandaged right hand twitched slightly, a reminder of his last "discussion" with Ian, where they’d disagreed then settled over the cost of loyalty.
The Rat sighed slightly, his voice smooth and formal as always.
"It’s gone well—far better than expected. My men have the city by the throat. They’re saying you’ve burned your last spell, lost your edge, that even your beast has abandoned you. They don’t think you’re rising again. As of this morning, I’d say nine out of ten bettors believe you’ll die in that ring."
"Good," Eli said, arms folded. "And the bookies?"
"Primed. Starving for profit. Not a single establishment expects him to win. When the odds rise high enough, the floodgates will open. Your bets will look like desperate wagers from fools." He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth. "Which means no suspicions. No patterns. No red flags."
A silence settled, broken only by the creak of loose tiles beneath the Rat’s polished shoes.
He turned his eyes up at Ian and added, "Still, I’d caution you, friend. My men—my best ears in the city—they say the church is not done sniffing around. Word is your name is being passed upward. Higher and higher."
"How high?" Eli asked, his tone suddenly devoid of warmth.
The Rat shrugged. "Not yet the Pontifex, but higher than anyone comfortable. If the Sanctum’s top inquisitors get wind of you, it won’t be an arena match you’ll be fighting—it’ll be a pyre."
"We’ll handle the church," Eli said flatly.
A moment passed, then a slight shuffle on the rooftop.
A hooded figure emerged from the shadowed stairwell and climbed silently onto the tiles. He bowed, never looking directly at Eli or Ian to know who they were beneath the hoods, and whispered something into the Rat’s ear. With a nod, he retreated without another word.
The Rat straightened. "It’s begun. The match has been announced. You’ll be fighting..." He paused, watching Ian for a reaction that never came.
"Torkas the Splitter."
The name hung in the air like thunder. Below, the city moved unaware. But on this rooftop, the temperature seemed to drop.
Ian blinked once. "What are the odds?"
"Pre-odds sit at thirty-five to one against you," the Rat answered. "But those will climb. Once the wagers start rolling in—and they will—you’ll hit over forty."
"Good," Ian said.
He lifted a hand and summoned a small pouch from the void.
Then another.
Then a larger bag.
The Rat’s eyes narrowed as gold clinked against the rooftop. Ian dropped a final heavy sack at the Rat’s feet, its contents glittering in the moonlight.
"One hundred thousand," Eli said. "Split unevenly across the city’s bookies. Place the bets when the odds peak."
The Rat knelt and checked the bags. "My ten percent of profits is still in deal?"
"It is," Eli replied.
The Rat gave a slow, appreciative nod. "Then I’ll be sure to earn every coin."
But the man straightened slowly, and for the first time that night, there was a flicker of unease in his eyes.
"I’ll do my part, of course. But understand something—Torkas is not like the rest. He’s not a thug. He’s not a brute in armor. He’s... surgical. Every swing he makes is designed to kill. It’s one thing to fool a city. It’s another to survive the man who’s silenced dozens of others who once thought they were destined for glory."
Ian scoffed and turned. "Then let me also do my part. Just worry about the coin."
And in the next breath, he and Eli vanished. A flicker of wind, a blur of cloaks—and they were gone.
—
Hours Later
The training chamber beneath the manor was a ruin of cracked stone and dented walls. Dust still hung in the air from the last impact.
Ian slammed into the far wall, his back splitting the stone and sending a tremor through the floor. A wave of pain flared in his chest—ribs shattering before healing mid-air. He dropped to the ground hard, coughing.
Across the room, Eli stood untouched, breathing slow and unhurried. His stance didn’t falter. He hadn’t even drawn a weapon.
"That’s three in a row," Eli said. "And I’m not even trying."
Ian wiped the blood from his mouth. "You’re not exactly a good measure of average arena strength."
"You’re not fighting average." Eli stepped forward, his boots clicking against the cracked floor. "You’re fighting Torkas. A man who’s made nobles scream from behind enchanted shields. One win won’t mean shit if you lose now. We lose the payout. We lose the momentum. We lose the Council."
He came to a stop over Ian, staring down. "We lose everything."
He turned and walked toward the training chamber’s door. "We pick it up again in a few hours."
And with that, he was gone.
Ian exhaled, slow and steady. The sharp ache of healing bones surged through him, muscle knitting together beneath bloodstained skin.
He pushed himself upright, gripping the dagger he’d barely managed to wield during the fight. His knuckles were split, his breath ragged.
But his eyes were clear, steel-gray and unyielding.
He lifted his gaze to the floating panel before him.
---
[Weapon: Vowbreaker]
Grade: 4 (BeastBound)
Type: <Unawakened>
Abilities: <Unawakened>
---
Ian tightened his grip around the hilt.
"So wake the hell up," he whispered.
