"Buy a cat?"
Rorger blinked in confusion, staring blankly at Corleone as though he had misheard. A cat? Of all things they could be discussing at this moment—money, winnings, danger, revenge, or even food—why a cat?
Why buy a cat?
Did Boss Corleone like cats?
Did it have some hidden meaning?
Was it code?
Was the cat supposed to attack someone?
Or was this one of those mysterious preferences rich people had?
Rorger scratched his head, completely baffled. But after a moment of hesitation, he nodded seriously and mumbled to himself:
"…I should write that down in a little notebook."
Before he could ask anything more, Ralf appeared with a group of his men, closing in like wolves scenting blood. His eyes were sharp and venomous, and even the way he breathed carried hostility, as though he wanted to rip both Rorger and Corleone apart right then and there.
"Well done."
Ralf forced out the words through clenched teeth. His gaze flicked to the arena where Yigo stood victorious, then back to Rorger. The smile on his face twitched, stiff and unnatural, like someone trying to pretend poison tasted like wine.
"Although I don't know where you dug up such a formidable fighter," he said, each word dripping with irritation, "I have to admit it—that was damn well done."
His lips twisted upward in a strained grin, and he added mockingly:
"You've gotten smarter, Rorger."
Then, lowering his voice, he leaned closer and sneered:
"If you had been this smart back then, you wouldn't have been hauled off in a prison cart like a stray dog, right?"
Rorger's expression darkened. But inside, Ralf's thoughts were racing. Everything was too perfect, too coincidental—only a fool wouldn't see the trap.
A mysterious newcomer nobody knew had taken down the undefeated Bord in only a few rounds.
Rorger had conveniently returned at just the right moment.
He had placed a heavy bet of one thousand Gold Dragons—even using "that thing" as collateral.
If Ralf still failed to see the scheme, he wouldn't have survived a week in Flea Bottom, let alone controlled a lucrative arena.
"Cut the crap," Rorger snapped back.
Instead of anger, he laughed—a smug, nasal sound—and lifted his chin arrogantly.
"Pay up, Ralf! Five thousand Gold Dragons. Short one copper piece," he warned, puffing out his chest, "and I'll fucking—"
"That's quite rude of you, Rorger."
Corleone cut him off smoothly.
His voice wasn't loud, but it was cold enough to freeze the rest of the sentence in Rorger's throat. Instinctively, Rorger stepped back, eyes wide like a scolded child, completely silenced.
Then Corleone turned toward Ralf, and a gentle, almost gracious smile appeared on his face. He extended a hand, polite and composed.
"This is just business, isn't it, my lord?"
His tone was casual, almost leisurely.
"Business goes back and forth. Today I win, tomorrow you win. That's how coins circulate. Otherwise, Gold Dragons would just sit around gathering dust in someone's warehouse."
Ralf hesitated.
Even amidst the noisy, chaotic atmosphere of the arena, he sensed something strange—an aura that didn't belong to a common gambler or a wandering mercenary. Corleone looked ordinary, even unimpressive, yet Ralf felt a faint pressure, like standing before a powerful noble.
For a brief moment, he hallucinated that Corleone was not a nobody—but a true magnate.
[Dignity Lv2]
Before he knew it, Ralf reached out and grasped Corleone's arm.
The very second their hands met, something inside him screamed.
Oh no.
His instincts—honed after years of surviving treachery—flared violently.
He tried to pull away, but Corleone suddenly yanked him forward and pulled him into an enthusiastic embrace.
A hug.
A very public, very friendly hug.
A hug everyone could see.
Corleone leaned in and whispered into his ear:
"Did no one ever tell you never—ever—to shake hands with your enemy?"
"You son of a—"
Before Ralf could finish cursing, Corleone clapped him loudly on the back several times and raised his voice cheerfully:
"Hahaha! A pleasure doing business, Ralf!"
"Thanks to your help, we made a killing this time!"
The words rang out like thunder.
Every gambler nearby heard them.
Ralf went pale. He shoved Corleone away as fast as he could, but it was far too late.
Everyone had seen the embrace.
The fight itself had already looked suspicious—Bord, undefeated for years, had been crushed in a few rounds by a newcomer no one recognized. Many gamblers who had bet everything were already doubting the match.
Now Corleone's cheerful proclamation had become the final spark needed to ignite fury.
"It was fixed!!" someone screamed.
"Cheaters!"
"These bastards were working together!"
"They set us up to steal our money!"
"Refunds!"
In a heartbeat, chaos erupted.
Angry gamblers shouted curses so foul that even Flea Bottom fishwives would have applauded. Their rage spread like wildfire, pulling in drunks, spectators, and even people who hadn't placed a single copper coin.
Humans were good at many things—but nothing rivaled their talent for following the crowd.
Soon, nearly everyone was shouting at Ralf, calling him every insult imaginable.
If not for the seven or eight strong men standing protectively beside him, the crowd might have torn him apart right then and there.
"You set me up!!" Ralf roared, shaking with fury as the insults rained down.
His cane trembled in his hand, and his eyes burned with the desire to kill Corleone on the spot.
This wasn't just about money anymore.
This was about reputation.
If the arena's credibility collapsed, no one would dare place bets again.
And the arena didn't belong solely to Ralf.
If the real boss behind the scenes learned he had let things fall apart…
His corpse might be found floating facedown in a bowl of brown soup tomorrow morning.
This outsider was too vicious. Too calculating. Too ruthless.
"You need evidence for your accusations, Lord Ralf," Corleone replied calmly.
He shrugged, expression serene, almost bored.
"Be careful. I might sue you for slander."
Ralf nearly lost control. He wanted to scream for his men to gut Corleone like a fish.
But with so many witnesses watching?
That would only prove the accusation true.
It was an open scheme.
A blatant, deliberate trap—set right in the open.
Ralf's teeth ground together until his gums bled.
He forced himself to inhale, steadying his trembling hands. He needed to calm the crowd, restore order—buy time. Even if it meant taking a financial loss, he had to keep the arena's reputation intact.
But then—
"BANG!!"
The arena doors slammed open with a deafening crash.
The shouting froze.
A squad of soldiers wearing golden cloaks marched inside. They spread out efficiently, securing the entrance and forming a line of authority.
The Gold Cloaks.
The law enforcement of King's Landing.
Common folk fell silent immediately. The Gold Cloaks held the power to arrest, beat, or hang someone on a whim. Even the bravest gambler shut his mouth the moment they appeared.
Ralf exhaled slowly—relief washing over him.
The timing was perfect. The crowd would calm, and with the Gold Cloaks present, he could regain control.
A smug smile crept across his face. He leaned toward Corleone, imitating the earlier whisper.
"I don't know which gutter you crawled out of, trash," he murmured.
"But didn't anyone tell you? In Ki
ng's Landing, if you want to survive—"
"You need power."
"You need connections."
"You thought a little trick would be enough to bring me down?"
He snorted, lips curling in contempt.
"Bullshit."