CHAPTER 232: CHAPTER 233: THE NAMELESS CHALLENGER

Noel moved through the crowd with calm precision, his green suit brushing against velvet chairs and trailing coattails. Balthor followed closely, keeping pace but glancing around with visible discomfort.

As they neared the center of the room—where the richest laughter and densest crowd gathered—Noel subtly tilted his head toward him.

"Don’t call him your brother," he said quietly. "Just follow my lead. Whatever he was back then... he’s not that anymore."

Balthor hesitated, but nodded once. "Alright kid."

The man at the center was impossible to miss. Surrounded by masked merchants, investors, and dwarven nobles, he stood with perfect ease—a drink in one hand, the other gesturing lightly as deals and rumors flowed around him. His mask was black and bronze, intricately carved, and his presence pulled attention like gravity.

Noel’s eyes narrowed.

’That has to be him.’

They weaved their way forward, cutting between nobles mid-conversation, ignoring sharp glances and muttered annoyance. Noel walked with just enough confidence to blend in—and just enough detachment to be noticed.

As they reached the outer edge of the inner circle, one of the attendants stepped forward to intercept them, eyes scanning for credentials.

Noel didn’t wait.

"We’re here on behalf of the Estermont family," he said smoothly, voice low but firm. "House contacts. We’re looking to establish a profitable partnership."

The effect was immediate.

The attendant straightened. "Estermonts?... the most powerful commercial family in value?"

Noel offered a small smile. "I only remember one family that has that surname."

A few murmurs rippled through the inner group. Then, from the center, the masked man turned.

Even behind the ornate faceplate, his interest was clear.

He raised a hand slightly, and the attendant stepped aside.

"Send them to a private table," the man said. His voice was calm, steady, and laced with amusement. "We’ll speak properly."

Noel nodded once in acknowledgment.

Balthor said nothing—but his gaze lingered on the man as they were guided away, to a velvet-curtained booth with fine lighting and a clear view of the arena floor.

The booth was quiet, lined with soft cushions and enclosed just enough to muffle the ambient noise of the hall. A low table sat between them, already prepared with two crystal glasses and a decanter of dark amber liquor. Candles floated above in small orbs of soft golden light.

Moments later, the masked man arrived—still surrounded by subtle attention, though now it kept its distance. He sat across from Noel and Balthor, crossing one leg over the other with practiced ease.

"Not many people speak that name in places like this," he said, voice smooth behind the mask. "The Estermonts don’t do casual business. I assume you’re here with serious intent."

Noel offered a polite nod, tone measured. "We’re looking for opportunities. I’m interested in revenue that isn’t capped by politics or slow bureaucracy."

The man chuckled quietly. "A rare type of hunger."

"I don’t care how it’s made," Noel continued. "Only that it works. Fast and in volume."

Balthor leaned back, arms crossed, playing the role of a silent associate. His eyes never left the masked man.

The host paused, letting Noel’s words settle before responding.

"You’re not the first to come here with dreams of gold," he said. "But few understand the real veins to mine."

Noel tilted his head slightly. "Then maybe you’ll point me to one."

The man reached for the decanter and poured himself a drink—just one, not offering to the others yet.

"This year’s academy tournament is a gold vein, if you know how to tap it properly."

Noel raised an eyebrow. "You seem confident."

"Because I control twenty-five percent of the brackets, even more, but you wouldn’t know that."

There was no arrogance in the way he said it—just certainty.

Balthor’s jaw shifted slightly, but he remained silent.

Noel’s voice stayed calm. "That sounds... dangerous."

The man’s tone lowered. "It’s a commercial secret. One I don’t share lightly."

He took a sip, then set the glass down and looked directly at Noel.

"If you want to be part of something bigger than bets on students, you’ll have to prove you’re worth trusting."

Noel leaned forward slightly. "And how would I do that?"

The man didn’t answer with words. He simply turned his head and gestured toward the lower level—where the arena waited, still stained with traces of the last match.

Noel followed the man’s gesture with his eyes.

Down below, the arena stood empty now—its sand surface freshly raked, but still faintly darkened where blood had soaked in earlier. The faint hum of mana-lights cast long shadows along the stone walls. Several guests nearby still glanced toward it between drinks, half-expecting the next spectacle.

Noel didn’t speak at first.

He let the silence hang.

"So that’s your test?" he said finally. "A fight in the arena? That’s how I have to prove it?"

The man smiled behind his mask. "I find that fighting says more about a man than conversation ever could."

Balthor scoffed under his breath. "You’re still running that barbaric tradition, huh?"

The man turned his head slightly. "Barbaric? Maybe, but profitable I can do in one day what many nobles can do in months.. But, sir, I don’t know if we know each other well enough for you to know whether it’s a tradition or not, or am I wrong?"

Balthor wouldn’t respond to that, he’d just shake his head.

Noel kept his gaze on the pit. His expression unreadable.

"And what happens if I win?"

"Then you’ve earned a seat at the table. You’ll find doors start opening faster."

"And if I lose?"

The man leaned back in his seat. "I’ll assume you weren’t ready for this world. And the doors stay closed. You’re probably missing a tooth, some brain cells, or even your life."

Balthor shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Noel.

Noel’s fingers tapped once against the rim of his untouched glass. He still hadn’t taken a sip.

’A trap maybe... but walking away would close every path forward.’

He gave a short nod. "Then set the terms. I’ll fight."

The masked man turned his eyes back to the arena. "I’ll have someone prepare your match. You won’t be alone down there."

His voice dropped just slightly.

"Survive... and we’ll talk business."

The masked man rose from his seat with the grace of someone used to being obeyed.

"I’ll let the floor manager know," he said. "Your match will begin shortly. Don’t disappoint me."

With that, he turned and walked away, vanishing once more into the crowd. Instantly, a few attendants moved to follow him, leaving Noel and Balthor alone in the booth.

Balthor leaned in. "You really gonna go through with this?"

Noel’s eyes stayed on the arena. "If I walk away now, he won’t give us anything. We’ll be locked out."

"And if he’s setting you up to die?"

"Then I’ll survive. Like always."

Balthor grunted, clearly displeased, but didn’t argue further.

Down below, the soft hum of mana amplifiers flared to life.

Spotlights shifted toward the pit.

A familiar figure stepped into the light—the elven announcer, now dressed in a silver-and-black gown, her mask glittering with gemstone fragments.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, her voice echoing cleanly across the room, "tonight’s next match comes by special arrangement."

Cheers rose from the onlookers above.

"Returning to the pit... the undefeated, the unbreakable—Bone Crusher!"

The massive dwarf stepped into the arena from the left gate, arms raised. The crowd responded immediately, chanting his name, stomping on the floor, glasses raised high.

"And his opponent..." the announcer continued, pausing for dramatic effect.

From up in the booth, Noel didn’t move yet.

"A challenger without a name, sponsored by a guest of the house."

A hush rolled over the crowd.

"Anonymous... will you step forward?"

Noel slowly stood.

Balthor looked up at him, quiet for a moment. "Don’t die."

Noel gave him a faint smile. "Wasn’t planning to."

Then he turned.

The crowd below waited.

And Bone Crusher cracked his knuckles.