NOVPUB
Chapter 47: Odds of Blood
By midday, the city of Esgard was already run with unrest.
It started in whispers—tavern talk, market murmurs, quiet bets being placed under the tables of back-alley dens—but by the hour before sundown, the anticipation had evolved to great.
The Arena Games, long the bloodstained heartbeat of the city, were returning in full force. And with them, the gladiator now called The Demon Blade.
Blackrat adjusted the cuffs of his plum-colored coat, flicked a fleck of lint from his lapel, and walked calmly through the chaos.
He moved like he belonged everywhere—among noble balconies and beggars’ shanties alike—and in many ways, he did. His name was only ever spoken by those deep in street crime, and even then, rarely.
Most simply called him "the Rat." Those who knew better called him "A conniving bastard."
And today, he was busy.
A boy darted beside him, delivering parchment—fresh odds, inked hurriedly, still wet at the edges. Blackrat took it without breaking stride. He didn’t need to read it. He already knew what it would say.
Torkas the Splitter: 1.2 to 1
Ian the Demon Blade: 42.7 to 1
He smiled.
Perfect.
He turned down a crooked alley, where one of his bookmen waited beneath a makeshift stall painted in House Lugard colors. The stall wasn’t legitimate—none of them were—but it looked the part well enough for the common folk to trust.
Blackrat leaned in and handed the man a folded cloth pouch.
"Split it five ways," he said smoothly. "Ten thousand in each sector. Quietly. Random spreads. High volumes but slow entry. Wait for the odds to peak, then drop it all like thunder."
The man nodded and vanished into the crowd.
Blackrat adjusted his cuff again.
Beneath the polished manners and crisp fashion was a predator just as ruthless as the ones that filled the Arena. 𝘯𝑜𝘷𝘱𝘶𝑏.𝘤𝘰𝑚
But his teeth weren’t daggers—they were ledgers.
His blood wasn’t spilled—it was invested.
He stepped back onto the main road and let his eyes scan the swelling tide of people.
Posters were being waved through the air, showing artistic renderings of the night’s match. Torkas, massive and shirtless, covered in scars and bearing his infamous splitting axe, was drawn looming like a mountain. Ian was drawn smaller, shadowed, cloaked in inky blacks with red-tinted blades, like some mythic creature dredged from the abyss.
Blackrat smirked. Overdone, but effective.
The street crier shouted from atop a wooden platform.
"Tonight at sundown! The Demon Blade faces the Splitter! House Elarin’s last chance at redemption! Place your bets, mark your scrolls, and pray to the gods—blood will spill!"
Children ran through the crowd yelling Ian’s name. Vendors sold masks—one shaped like Torkas’ cracked helm, the other like a skeletal version of Ian’s face.
Even those who didn’t gamble were tuning in, driven by curiosity, fear, or hatred.
The fear, Blackrat knew, came from the rumors.
Rumors he had helped spread.
That Ian had cheated death by binding forbidden beasts. That he had used forbidden magic, or some darker art to defeat Varn. That his victory was a fluke, a spellcast illusion.
That whatever he’d summoned in the previous match couldn’t be summoned again—because Ian had no more bodies left to sacrifice.
It didn’t matter if the rumors were true. It only mattered that people believed.
And they did.
Gamblers were flooding the stalls, eager to bet against Ian at such long odds. It was easy money, they thought. It felt like theft.
’Good,’ Blackrat thought. ’Let them think that. Let them drown in it.’
As he continued walking, his sharp eyes caught the presence of a Sanctum agent standing near the chapel steps. Robed in white and silver, with the sunburst emblem of the Church of Light embossed on his chest, the man was speaking fervently to a small group of citizens.
Blackrat didn’t need to hear the words to know the message.
Beware the heretics. The demon colluders.
They never said Ian’s name, they had no proof for that—but it was implied.
The Church had taken a keen interest in Ian since the moment he set foot in the arena. And from what Blackrat’s informants had whispered, Ian’s name had been spoken in sanctified rooms far higher than any city chapel.
That wasn’t ideal. But it wasn’t unexpected.
He’d already passed the warning to Eli. Let them deal with it.
His job was the numbers.
—
By late afternoon, the city had transformed.
The streets near the coliseum were now a sea of bodies. Music blared from taverns and balconies. Drunks sang off-key praises for Torkas’ legendary strength, recounting stories of him splitting horses in half with a single swing.
Women painted his name on their arms. Children yelled and threw makeshift axes in the alleys.
And still, no one thought Ian could win.
’That,’ Blackrat thought, ’was the real show.’
He stood at the edge of a rooftop now, watching the arena in the distance as the sun crawled toward the horizon.
The golden dome of the central spire gleamed with orange fire. Down below, torches were being lit. Officials and bookkeepers were taking their stations. Merchants shouted over one another, trying to sell the last of their match-day charms.
And still, the odds rose.
44.1 to 1.
44.7.
45.3.
Blackrat pulled a small scroll from his pocket. It was blank save for the mark of House Elarin—a faint silver line etched into the paper.
He smiled at it.
They were playing a dangerous game.
If Ian lost, it would be over. The debt, the house, the future—it would all be gone.
But if he won...
Well.
Blackrat chuckled to himself, rolling the scroll tight again.
A wind swept across the rooftop, carrying the sounds of the city—excitement, hunger, bloodlust. The kind of energy that only came before slaughter.
The kind of madness that made men rich or ruined.
Below, his men were moving. Disguised as commoners. As slaves. As monks. Dropping coins at every betting stand, every shadow bookie, every hidden operation.
The final wave.
His work was done.
Blackrat turned as a courier scrambled up the rooftop, breathless, face wide with anxiety.
"The pre-bell tolls," the courier said. "They’ll be clearing the streets soon."
Blackrat waved him off. "Let them clear. Let the bells sing."
He looked again toward the Arena, where banners had begun to rise. One bore the silver flame of House Elarin. The other bore the cracked red axe of House Lugard.
The last hour had begun.
Soon the gates would open. The names would be called. And if the gods were watching, they’d be silenced.
Blackrat fixed his cuffs one final time.
Then he turned to the courier and said, "Let’s go find out how much gold we’re going to make tonight."
