The roar of the crowd still echoed behind him as Dirga walked out of the Gemspire Ring.
It hadn’t even been a minute.
And Rank 100—The Slithering Mist—had been crushed under gravitational collapse like a brittle twig in a vice.
Above the arena, the announcer’s voice rang out, high and breathless:
"And that’s it! Not thirty seconds! The Rank 100, dissolved like fog—smashed into the dirt by the One-Punch Devil! Ladies and Devils, this is history!"
The crowd erupted, a hurricane of noise—shocked, awed, and utterly rabid.
But Dirga didn’t bask in it.
He just kept walking.
His boots echoed down the hallway as he headed for the lobby.
He glanced left. Then right.
Dirga’s eyes narrowed. His expression darkened. His steps slowed.
Don’t tell me that bastard ran off with the money...
A familiar voice with the flutter of wings.
"Ah, Mr. Dirga," said the harpy receptionist, appearing like a shadow from behind one of the curtains. "If you’re looking for Optik—he’s waiting in your private rest room."
Dirga gave a curt nod.
He headed to the payout counter first.
From just one fight—three hundred Devil Gold.
The match had pulled in an absurd number of bets. Rank 100 was no joke. But Dirga had shattered expectations—and someone had made a fortune off it.
With heavy pockets and a colder heart, Dirga marched toward his private room.
Optik sat on the floor.
His coat was crumpled, his normally perfect hair sticking to his forehead. His face was pale.
And there was someone floating above the velvet sofa, not seated—just hovering, like gravity didn’t apply to him.
Salt-white hair curled sharply at the widow’s peak.
His face looked mid-forties, refined and worn by experience—not age.
Those eyes didn’t belong to anything mortal. They shimmered like twin singularities. Calm. Cold. Knowing.
Dirga’s heart jumped in his chest.
The man gave a casual smile, lifting two fingers in a mock salute.
"Hello, Patron. Been a while. What, two months?" said the familiar voice—half-playful, half-judgmental.
Dirga’s fists clenched.
"How the hell can you call me Patron after throwing me into a goddamn black forest?! And then vanishing? Not even a message?! You left me for dead!"
His voice echoed, sharp with fury.
Sasa put a finger to his chin, mock-thoughtful.
"Technically, I did give you a clue. ’Survive.’ Very clear instructions."
Dirga’s aura spiked. "You dropped me into Hell with nothing. No support. No follow-up. Just vanish. Now you show up because I finally figured out how to contact you?!"
Sasa tilted his head.
"...Are you done yapping yet?" he asked gently.
Dirga exhaled through his nose. The gravity pressure settled.
"...Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Give me back my damn money first."
That made Sasa blink.
"You heard me," Dirga said, stepping closer. "The five hundred Devil Gold I just burned to send a message. Give it back."
Sasa’s eye twitched. Just a little.
Dirga said nothing. Just stared.
Sasa sighed like he’d just been asked to tip someone who didn’t earn it. "Fine, fine. Gods, you really are a Patron."
He snapped his fingers, and a dark metallic card materialized in the air, glowing faintly with golden circuitry.
"Five hundred Devil Gold," he muttered. "All accounted for. I’ll invoice your sense of entitlement later."
Dirga caught it and nodded, satisfied.
Across the room, Optik—still seated on the floor, now visibly sweating—spoke up carefully.
"Uhh... Thank you both. For not... you know. Killing me."
He rose shakily and pulled out a sleek card from his belt pouch.
"Three hundred gold," he said, extending it toward Dirga with both hands. "Half of it’s yours."
Dirga took it wordlessly.
"Good luck, Mr. Dirga. And... Mr. Black Joker," Optik added quickly, bowing once before shuffling to the door. He paused, glanced back with wide eyes, then slipped out without another word.
The door hissed shut behind him.
Sasa floated higher, crossing his legs mid-air.
Sasa hovered a little lower now, expression still unreadable, voice dipped into something heavier.
"Now then..." he said quietly, the smile fading beneath his calm exterior.
He leaned forward, gaze locking with Dirga’s.
"...Shall we talk about what comes next, Patron?"
Dirga remained standing, arms crossed. The pressure in the room didn’t lessen—it simply shifted. It felt like a storm that hadn’t started yet.
"So, from what I’ve learned... Hell’s Roulette starts in two weeks."
Dirga’s tone was level, steady. "And the official advertisements go public starting tomorrow."
Sasa gave a sly grin, nodding with mock approval.
"See? You’ve come so far. Didn’t even need me to spell it out for you. Good Patron."
He gave a lazy thumbs-up.
Dirga sighed, brushing a hand through his hair.
This man was impossible.
Then Sasa’s voice changed again.
Gone was the mischief.
Only quiet gravity remained.
"Be ready, Dirgantara," he said. "Two weeks from now, you’ll enter the most dangerous tournament in the multiverse. The kind that reshapes realms. And no one—not even me—knows if you’ll come back out."
Dirga’s jaw clenched.
"...Can I go back first?"
His voice softened, a thread of ache bleeding through the steel.
"I need to see her. Just once."
Sasa looked at him for a beat longer than necessary.
"Yeah," he said, reaching into the space beside him.
A crack in reality tore open—small and shimmering—and from it, Sasa pulled a dark marble the color of obsidian, pulsing faintly with crimson veins.
"Crush this," Sasa said, holding it out. "Wherever you are, it’ll let you jump between the two places tied to your essence."
"In your case, that’s your Earth penthouse—yeah, I made sure to tag it back then. And the other? My place."
"...Your place?" Dirga raised an eyebrow.
Sasa smiled, smug again.
"Yep. Sector A. One of the deepest zones in Ortheva. Private, warded, inconveniently luxurious."
Sasa’s smile sharpened.
"After this, we’ll head there. You’ve got two weeks, Patron. Spend it well."