Heavenly Phoenix Range…
Early Morning…
Inside the Gambling association room, thick smoke curled upward, carrying the stench of expensive spirit-tobacco and greed.
Around the long table sat the true lords of the betting circles—owners of the Serpent Fang Hall, Thousand Dice Pavilion, Sky Jade Stakes, and a dozen other dens. All of them had one thing in common: enmity against Fatty Ben.
One of the older owners, a hunched man with a goatee dripping spirit-wine, slammed his cup down.
"Brothers… we cannot let this fat rat bleed us dry! Two rounds, and he's already stripped the skin from our backs. If that Kent King survives the third round, we'll be feeding on grass spirit porridge for the next decade!"
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table.
A tall, thin gambler with gold rings on every finger leaned forward. His voice was sharp as a blade.
