Fifteen minutes passed, the noise of clinking cutlery and low conversation drifting through the air like mist.
The Echelon wasn’t just a restaurant—it was a polished slab of wealth, a place where even a glass of water probably had pedigree.
Then came the voice—smooth, calculated, almost too friendly.
Dirga turned. Optik had arrived, sliding into the seat across from him like he’d always belonged there.
"Oh, the match’s over?" Dirga asked, raising an eyebrow.
Optik gave a charismatic grin. "Yeah. I left a little early. They don’t need me for low-stakes fights."
Before Dirga could respond, the waitress arrived—precise, silent, practiced. She placed two dishes on the table.
The portion was so small he could probably inhale it by accident.
One delicate sliver of meat glazed in something shiny, with two green leaves arranged like artwork. His stomach rumbled in protest.
"...This is food?" he muttered.
Optik chuckled, already slicing into his portion with the grace of someone pretending it was enough. "Delicacy," he said, emphasizing the word with mock reverence. "Tiny food. Big price."
Dirga looked at him, unimpressed. "This your first time here too?"
Optik shrugged. "Of course. This place is for nobles, mercenary lords, and people with way too many horns. I usually stick to backroom bars."
Dirga tried a bite. The flavor exploded—rich, sweet, spicy, smoky. Complex in a way he didn’t have the words for.
Didn’t mean it was enough.
The food vanished fast, and with it, his suspicion that it was worth the coin.
Optik dabbed the corner of his mouth with the sleek black-gold napkin, cybernetic eye flickering a dull crimson glow.
"So," he began, voice smooth as aged whiskey, "you want to know about the tournament?"
Dirga leaned forward. "Yes."
Optik’s smile deepened—but it lost its warmth. He shifted into something colder, something clinical. Business-mode.
"Well, you’re in luck. Any particular details you want to start with?"
"Let’s go broad first," Dirga replied.
"I already know it’s hosted by the Ace of Diamond. A thousand contestants—eight hundred invited directly, the other two hundred chosen through qualifying battles. And it’s supposed to be... a battle royale, or something close to that."
Optik’s brows arched, impressed.
"Well, you’ve got the bones of it," he said, tapping his glass with a long silver nail.
"The official name? Hell’s Roulette. And in three days, every damn wall in Ortheva will scream it—ads, screens, skywriting drones, you name it. The lineup’s been locked in. The two hundred from the public qualifiers? Chosen just days ago."
He took a slow sip, savoring the moment.
"So if you were hoping to get in—too late. It’s over."
Dirga met his gaze, calm and steady. "I don’t need to get in."
The silence between them sharpened like a blade. The man’s smile faltered, a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth.
"I’m not one of the two hundred," Dirga continued, voice low. "I’m one of the others. Invited."
The glass in Optik’s hand froze mid-air. His eye twitched.
A bead of sweat trailed from his temple to his jaw.
He scanned Dirga again—this time slower, deeper. Aura hidden. Intent veiled.
But the pressure... it was there. Waiting. The way devils described the weight of titans.
"...You’re not joking," Optik whispered, voice tight. "That means... you were selected. Directly. By the Diamond."
Dirga didn’t respond.
Optik exhaled. "Shit."
He adjusted his collar, cleared his throat, and forced a smile back onto his face.
"So, Mr. Dirga. What is it exactly you need from a humble information broker like me?"
"I need to know how to contact someone in the tournament," Dirga said, tone sharp.
Optik blinked again. "You... can’t. That’s not how it works. They contact you. Everything’s handled by the Ace’s administration directly. Black-box logistics. Silent runners. You don’t reach them—they find you."
Dirga’s brow furrowed.
So this meeting was pointless.
He had dragged Optik here, ordered overpriced food, wasted a gold coin—only to be told he had no means of contact.
Optik noticed the frustration rising behind Dirga’s eyes. He leaned forward, voice calm.
"Hey—don’t be too disappointed. I did satisfy your curiosity, didn’t I? That has value."
Dirga didn’t respond.
Optik cleared his throat. "But... if you’re looking to contact someone else... across realms... I can help with that."
Dirga raised an eyebrow. "You can send messages across dimensions?"
Optik smirked. "Of course. I’m Optik. I can arrange anything—if the price is right."
Dirga narrowed his eyes. "I want to contact the Black Joker. Sasa."
Optik stared at him like he’d just said he wanted to slap the Devil King in the face. His cybernetic eye twitched once—then dimmed.
"You—you want to contact the Black Joker? Sasa? Are you insane?"
Optik rubbed his face like he was trying to wipe away what he just heard. "Do you have any idea what happens if a Devil like he gets annoyed? he doesn’t just kill you.
he erases you. Wipes your name from the soul stream. Maybe even blows up the damn realm your message came from!"
"...So you can’t do it?"
"I can do it!" Optik snapped. "But you’re talking suicidal-level risk. Not just dangerous—expensive."
Dirga leaned in. "How expensive?"
Optik leaned back, as if preparing for his own words to hit him.
"Five hundred Devil Gold."
Dirga almost choked on air.
Five hundred? He barely had one left after that meal.
"...What if you pay it upfront," Dirga said slowly, "and I earn it back for you?"
Optik narrowed his eyes. "Not exactly a banker, kid."
"I fight in the Gemspire Ring," Dirga said. "You bet on me. We win together. Get your 500, send the message."
And then he smiled. A full-toothed grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
"You want to gamble your life in that pit? Just for a message?"
Dirga’s stare didn’t waver. "I’ve already gambled more for less."
Optik whistled, tapping the table twice with a finger. "You’ve got balls, Dirga. I’ll give you that."
Then he leaned forward, his voice low, like a secret shared between devils.
"Welcome to the Ring."