Eight o'clock sharp, Jingyi's first bout kicked off.
From eight to nine-thirty, the underground ring hummed—peak hours, packed with punters. The organizers slotted Jingyi here, a clear nod to her potential. This was just a side venue, hosting G4 scraps; higher tiers like G2 or G1 glittered elsewhere. The crowd here leaned rough—Backstreet's broke, plus some off-world workers hooked on fights, trekking in post-shift. To match the vibe, even the priciest drink capped at a hundred credits. The place was wide, clean, with a fifteen-minute mid-show break where sultry dancers swayed, keeping boredom at bay.
If the bottom-tier setup was this slick, what dazzled in G1's golden halls?
Baisha caught a minute of a dancer's sway before the organizers called Jingyi to prep.
"I'm off," Jingyi said, eyeing Baisha's drink. "No booze—this stuff's rocket fuel."
Baisha, who'd chugged worse on Hanbo, just raised her coconut juice, waving her off. Yaning, Jingyi's "assistant," trailed her to the back.
Baisha glanced at a big screen listing tonight's bouts. Jingyi's alias, "Dithis," faced "Valta." No real names here—fools didn't flash IDs in Backstreet. Fighters wore half-helms to blur their faces, but build, age, muscle gave them away. Dithis was a tall, lean young woman; Valta, no hulking brute, but a prime-age boxer, bronzed and ripped. A side screen looped Valta's past fights for the crowd.
Baisha studied it. Valta fought clean, sharp—like a raptor, explosive yet cool-headed, pouncing on split-second flaws. Strength, skill, brains—he had it all. His name trailed a score and a near-full G3 promotion bar. One win from leveling up.
"Fighters climb by points," a nearby voice muttered. "Win's ten, loss docks ten. Valta's one fight from G3. Why pair him with her? It's a free pass."
Another scoffed. "You're clueless. Dithis rolled in last week—three straight wins, including 'Sel Hammer.' Hammer was G3-bound, like Valta. She crushed him, stunned his fans."
Even G4 climbers had groupies.
Ding-ding-ding. Eight o'clock chimed. A red betting window glowed.
"Yo, Dithis versus Valta's open!" someone yelped. "Valta's favored, but odds are tight—barely a gap. Bet either, same payout. Organizers think they're neck-and-neck?"
"Last time, Dithis-Hammer, folks judged her looks and got burned," another said. "No one's dumb now—bets'll be cautious, maybe none. Organizers had to lowball odds."
Small crowds, close fights—odds shrank.
Baisha drained her juice, thoughtful, and hit the betting window. "What's a stake?"
"Hundred credits per, twenty max per person, per fight," the clerk said.
She nodded. "Twenty on Dithis."
The clerk glanced up, skeptical. "You of age? Don't need your folks hounding me."
Baisha flashed a grin. "Mind your business."
Her bluntness eased him—locals talked like that. She scanned payment, got twenty dark-red metal coins, and pocketed them, heading to the ring.
Her face, she knew, was the problem. They pegged her for a thrill-seeking heiress, too risky for bets. Gambling hooked hard—some shrugged off losses, others drowned. Twenty stakes meant two grand; daily fights piled up fast. Bankruptcies weren't rare.
If she were some elite's kid, the clerk wouldn't dare. Higher tiers bet bigger—two grand was pocket change to clans, but a hooked heiress hitting G2 or G1 could spiral. Organizers kept their cash, but a vengeful family could crush a lowly clerk.
Judging faces was their trade.
Baisha didn't care for gambling—just a side hustle. She'd dissected Valta's vids; Jingyi could take him, no sweat. Low-risk bet, quick cash—why not?
Eight-ten, the fight began.
Both fighters took their corners, helmed, armored at chest and back, limbs fitted with exosuits—not full-body, but targeted. Arm units boosted strength; leg units amped grip and speed.
Ringside held fighters and assistants—part cheerleader, part analyst, all lifeline, ready to throw the towel if their fighter faltered. Yaning, Jingyi's aide, was useless beyond water and towels. Valta's assistant, a grizzled hulk, glared, whispering tactics.
Experience gap? Massive. But Jingyi was a combat prodigy.
The bell rang. She shot forward, a missile, no leg exosuit but blurring fast. Clang! Valta didn't test her—she aimed for his face.
He blocked, arms up, absorbing the hit. As she drew back, his fist arced for her shoulder. She dodged; his punch feinted, diving for her gut. Thinking his ruse worked, Valta pressed—only for Jingyi to sidestep, feet like eyes, brushing past. She spun mid-air, fists slamming his nape.
Valta was seasoned, but Jingyi's instincts outclassed him. Ring rules curbed her—no leg strikes allowed—but her adaptability crushed him. Valta hunted her patterns; Jingyi read his body, exosuit hums, even air shifts. He chased formulas; she fought raw, no script.
Round one: Jingyi racked points.
Round two: She knocked him off the ring—ref called a fall.
Round three: Valta, spooked, turtled up. His assistant, opposite, looked ready to combust.
The explosive Valta never got a spark. Jingyi's relentless pace owned the fight, giving no quarter.
It ended. Drones sprayed ribbons and gold dust; neon flickered wild. The host roared, "Tonight's victor—our blazing star, slayer of Hammer and Valta, the youngest genius—Dithis!"
Cheers erupted, a spotlight pinning Jingyi.
The host grinned. "Any words, Miss Dithis?"
Standard post-fight fan bait. Jingyi eyed the mic-drone, brow raised. "Nada."
"Don't be cold—your fans are watching," the host teased.
"Want me to play ring idol? That's extra," she shot back.
The host froze.
Jingyi hopped off, beelining for the locker room. Baisha whistled, cashing her twenty stakes at the window—eight hundred credits, clean. Chicken legs for the crew tonight.
As Jingyi and Yaning, unmasked, met Baisha to leave, a sleek man blocked them. Black hair, cool poise, he pulled a notebook and gold-trimmed pen. "Miss Dithis?"
Jingyi tensed. "Who're you?"
"Ellen, ring actuary," he said. "I track your fights, assess odds for betting pools."
"So?" Jingyi said, casual. "I didn't stop you watching. Grab your data."
"You beat two G3 hopefuls—you're due for G3," Ellen said, soft. "But your fight count's low. I can't gauge you properly, which complicates my reports."
Yaning frowned. "You want her stuck in G4 longer?"
"Exactly," Ellen said. "Her strength shines, but rapid climbs draw eyes, invite trouble. G4 to G3 shifts the game—mech-fights become smart-mech fights. You'd be shocked at their gear tweaks. In G3, anything boosting fight sense is 'legal'—no combat chips for real-time analysis, that's banned, but full-body alloy bone swaps? Fair game."
Jingyi's gaze sharpened. "Your point?"
Ellen exhaled, relieved. "I can hook you with Lanslow's top mech-tech. In exchange, linger in G4." He paused, smirking sly. "Down the line, in higher tiers, we could… collaborate."
Collaborate? An actuary and fighter rigging odds, faking fights.
Jingyi glanced at him. "I'll stay in G4 a bit."
Ellen's satisfaction flickered, cut short. "But don't bug me again," she added. "I'm here for fun and cash. Annoy me, I'm out."
Ellen's smile strained. "You're rare. Fine, no partnership. I'll still find you a solid mech-tech."
"Lanslow's best is right here," Jingyi said, nodding at Baisha. "Why look elsewhere?"
Baisha, eavesdropping, gave Ellen a nod.
He scanned her, skeptical. "Your friend's a mech-tech?"
"High-grade level," Jingyi said, slinging an arm around Baisha. "Just too young for certs."
Baisha: …Could've skipped that last bit.
Ellen smirked, unconvinced—Lanslow had what, a handful of high-grades? He chuckled, taking it as a jest, and bowed out gracefully.
The trio left. On the flyer home, Baisha asked, "How long you sticking with this?"
"Till near G2," Jingyi said, shrugging. "We're off to school in two years. G2 or G1 ties you to the ring's profits—messy. Tuition's nearly set; we're just grinding for kicks."
"With our Backstreet trips, we'll never climb like pros," Baisha said—prep kept them to weekends. "But Ellen's talk got me curious about high-tier gear."
What were Backstreet's mech-techs cooking? Too bad G3 or G2 tickets cost a fortune. Her eight hundred credits might snag a peek. If she could mod that gear, she'd tap a goldmine of hardcore clients.
Back at the orphanage, they split to rest. Baisha's optic-link pinged: "Your premium optic-links are en route. Pick delivery time."
She nearly leapt off her bed, sleep gone. "One a.m. counts as tomorrow, right?"
"…" The reply paused. "You're eager."
Baisha frowned, typing, "Not the delivery guy?"
"Check my profile, our past chats," came the slow response.
She did—one record: a three-hundred-grand transfer. Ning Hongxue.
Baisha: "…"
"Oops, my bad, haha," she typed, mortified, while smoothly renaming him: Zhou Yue's Shady Uncle.
He'd messaged about the links—too sensitive to deliver straight to her. They'd hit a Backstreet drop; she'd fetch them. No rush, it was far, so she'd plan later.
Then another ping: "Per your request, delivery's set. Grab them soon."
Baisha groaned, hauling herself up, fumbling for her flyer in the dark.
Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.