From Bullets To Billions

After the manager finished speaking, he made his way back to his red velvet seat, which sat perfectly centered between the upper and lower viewing areas. On his way down, he greeted a few of the nearby guests with a courteous nod and a smile.

The current match in the ring was still ongoing, and as Max continued to observe the spectacle, he noticed something interesting. Several guests were placing frequent bets. They simply pressed a small buzzer on the table in front of them, and the nearest waiter would rush over to place the bet with the manager on their behalf.

The odds must be constantly shifting, Max thought, just like a live boxing match or horse race. But there's got to be a cutoff point for these bets, right?

One thing stood out, whenever someone from the VIP section placed a wager, including guests like Chad or Max himself, the manager personally got up from his seat to handle the bet.

Eventually, the fight reached its conclusion. A clean, powerful kick struck one of the fighters square in the face, sending them crashing back onto the mat, unable to continue.

Right at that moment, something intriguing happened. The table in front of them transformed, morphing into a screen. Two full fighter profiles appeared side-by-side.

"Are these the next contestants?" Max asked.

Chad leaned forward, eyeing the screen intently. He was reviewing the fighters' weights, their win-loss records, and even their ages. All their stats were displayed, as if this were a professional league.

"Pretty neat, right?" Chad said. "The group behind this place invested a lot into these venues. We VIP guests get a bit of an edge, more info than the average spectator, so we can make the smarter choice."

The more Max talked to Chad, the more clueless the guy seemed. What kind of advantage was a fighter's weight or record really going to give them? Especially in an underground fighting ring where matches were likely rigged more for entertainment than fairness.

Or maybe it's not about the stats, Max thought. Maybe it's about seeing the odds themselves, knowing who's favored in the fight.

But in a place like this, any edge could be an illusion.

"Well, look at that," Chad said, pointing to the screen. "This guy's only lost once. The other guy? Ten losses. I know who I'm betting on." Without hesitation, he leaned forward and pressed the buzzer.

Max stared at him. "What are you doing? You're seriously placing a bet?"

It wasn't just the bet, it was how carelessly Chad did it, picking based solely on one stat without even glancing at the rest of the data.

"Max," Chad said with a smug grin, "I've been real patient with you lately, letting you talk to me like I'm some nobody, even though I could slap you upside the head and drop you anytime I felt like it."

Max's jaw clenched. His teeth ground together as the anger swelled inside him.

"What's your play here?" Chad continued. "We place a bet, fifty million. If we win, we get a hundred million. Boom. Debt cleared. And barely any of your actual money spent."

"And if we lose?" Max snapped. "That just means fifty million gets added to the debt. And you think that's smart?"

"I know you can afford it," Chad said, unbothered. "That's all that matters."

"You're using my money like it's your own!" Max nearly shouted but held himself back. Causing a scene here could attract exactly the kind of attention he didn't need.

His fingers kept brushing against the phone in his pocket, a subtle, subconscious check for an exit plan.

"It doesn't matter," Chad said with a grin. "I'm not taking the money from you directly. It's just sitting in your account. But while we're here together, and I've got no way to pay, well, your money becomes my money. My debt becomes your debt."

It was absolutely insane how recklessly stupid Chad could be in certain situations. His logic was laughable, and yet, somehow, he was absolutely right.

In the eyes of the gang, no one cared whose debt it was. All that mattered was who had the means to pay, and that person, unfortunately, was now Max.

The manager had already left his seat, walking over with a wide grin plastered across his face.

"Well, I figured you'd place a bet," the manager said, rubbing his hands together, "but I didn't think it would be this early in the night."

"Fifty million on the Sniper," Chad said confidently.

"Wait!" Max blurted. "If you're going to gamble with my money, then at least let me pick the fighter."

Chad paused, as if he had the luxury of making that decision. But after a moment, he leaned back, settling comfortably into his chair.

"I've been on a losing streak anyway," he shrugged. "Go ahead. Maybe you'll break it."

Max didn't look at the fighter profiles. Instead, his eyes scanned the room, trying to read the crowd's reaction.

Chad had just made a massive bet, but there was almost no response from anyone.

A billion might be a lot to lose, Max thought, but if you're casually tossing out fifty million at a time, maybe it's just another drop in the bucket.

There were definitely rich people in the room, but not many could match Chad or Max's level.

"Do you take the money right away?" Max asked the manager. "Or do you wait until the end of the night?" Find this chapter's source on MV-LEM-PYR.

"Not until the event's over," the manager replied. "But no one's allowed to leave until everything's settled. If needed, discussions can be made."

"Alright then," Max nodded. "Fifty million on Sniper."

Chad smirked. "So you just went with the guy I picked anyway. Guess I'm rubbing off on you."

The manager bowed politely and returned to his seat. It looked like the next match would start at any moment.

Guests began grabbing food and drinks while the venue buzzed with anticipation. That's when the entrance door creaked open.

Someone new stepped into the room, scanning the crowd as if looking for someone.

Max's eyes locked with his, both of them recognizing each other instantly.

Is that… Dud? From the Rejected Corps? Max thought, his pulse beginning to quicken.