Chapter 90: Chapter 87 — He Wagered an Entire Sector

The wind tearing through the shattered armor-glass smelled of oxidized copper and boiling acid. It whipped the loose crimson silk of the curtains into a violent frenzy, scattering black ash across the ruined VIP suite.

On the floor, former billionaires wept. They curled into the damp carpet, clutching their zeroed-out terminals, coughing up blood and teeth as the Zhang Central Bank violently repossessed their physical cultivation.

I did not look at them. I kept my eyes on the Market Maker.

Baron Zhang stood rigid. The dull grey First Era iron plating covering his massive torso hissed, venting superheated steam from the joints. The heavy glass cylinder bolted over his sternum flared a blinding, erratic gold.

The Queen’s soul fragment was fighting him.

It felt the sudden shift in karmic weight. It felt the absolute financial ruin crashing down on the Warlord’s empire. The swirling light inside the cage violently slammed against the reinforced glass, fighting the brass clamps that siphoned her divine Law into Zhang’s veins.

With every impact against the glass, the rusted hairpin in my breast pocket burned. The heat seared a permanent blister over my heart.

Zhang ground his teeth. He pressed his massive, ring-covered hand directly over the cylinder, forcing his own brutal, dark Qi back into the cage to suppress her. Smoke curled from his fingers where the heated glass burned his skin.

He lowered his hand. His blood-red eyes locked onto me.

“You think a number on a screen stops me?” Zhang’s voice was a low, mechanical growl that vibrated through the cracked mahogany tables. He took one heavy step forward. The floorboards snapped under his iron boots. “I am a Warlord of the Eight Families. I took this sector with my bare hands two centuries ago. I will rip your arms off and beat your rusted dog to death with them.”

I didn’t reach for a weapon. I adjusted the cuffs of my ruined black suit.

“If you cross this room,” I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the howling wind, “you trigger an unprovoked physical assault against a primary creditor. Under the Commerce Code of the Ivory Sky, the penalty for a defaulted debtor attacking the entity holding their debt is immediate execution.”

I tapped the curved handle of my black umbrella against the floor.

“Judge Mortis is already watching me,” I reminded him. “Do you think his gavel won’t fall on your neck the second your fist touches my coat?”

Zhang stopped.

The heavy gears in his armor whined in protest as he arrested his own momentum. He was a killer, but he was not an idiot. He survived the brutal politics of the upper layers because he understood the System.

He looked at the glowing green terminal embedded in my booth.

PORTFOLIO VALUE: 12,850,000,000 SILVER.

He didn’t have the liquidity to cover the short squeeze. I had drained the entire operating budget of the Flesh Exchange in twelve seconds. He was legally, mathematically cornered.

“A wager,” Zhang spat the word, tasting the bitter ash in the air. His jaw clenched tightly. “You came into my house, slaughtered my assets, crashed my market, and now you want to gamble for the scraps?”

“I don’t want the scraps,” I said. “I want the board.”

I reached out with my right hand.

I didn’t pull my cracked smartphone. I summoned the Sovereign’s Authority.

The temperature in the VIP suite dropped sharply. The smell of synthetic jasmine and stale vomit vanished, replaced immediately by the heavy, ancient scent of burning incense and dry paper.

A massive, burning projection manifested in the air between us.

The Golden Ledger.

The heavy pages turned rapidly, the sound resembling grinding stone. The sheer, physical weight of the Law radiating from the artifact pressed the weeping aristocrats completely flat against the carpet. They gasped for air, suffocating under the gravity of absolute bureaucracy.

Zhang braced his boots against the floor. His First Era iron plating groaned as the aura pushed against him. His red eyes widened, staring at the burning book.

“What is that?” Zhang demanded, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave. He recognized the ancient frequency of the Law, even if his brain couldn’t process the identity of the man wielding it.

“The contract,” I said.

A heavy calligraphy brush materialized in my grip. The bristles dripped with liquid gold. I didn’t write on the air. I pressed the brush directly onto the dark mahogany wood of the betting table.

I wrote the terms in the old script. The characters burned themselves permanently into the wood, glowing with a harsh, blinding light.

“I am putting twelve billion, eight hundred and fifty million silver on the table,” I announced, my voice echoing with an unnatural, heavy harmonic. “I am also putting down the physical deed to Sector Nine, legally acquired from the Alchemist Consortium.”

I reached into my inner jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy, wax-sealed parchment. I tossed it onto the table. It landed next to the burning characters.

Zhang’s eyes tracked the deed.

“And what exactly are you buying with a city and twelve billion silver?” Zhang asked. The predatory glint returned to his eyes. He saw a massive, impossible pile of wealth sitting within his grasp.

“Everything,” I said. “A Winner-Takes-All blood-wager. If I win, I acquire the legal deed to Sector Eight. I acquire the Flesh Exchange. I acquire your personal accounts, your syndicates, and your mercenaries.”

I paused. I looked directly at the heavy glass cylinder bolted to his chest.

“And I acquire your pacemaker,” I finished, my voice turning deadpan and utterly cold.

Zhang stiffened.

His massive hand twitched toward his chest plate. He looked at me, truly looking at me for the first time. He scanned my ruined suit, my dirty boots, and the cold, golden light reflecting in my eyes.

“You know what this is,” Zhang whispered. It wasn’t a question.

“I know it doesn’t belong to you,” I replied.

Zhang threw his head back and laughed. The sound was harsh, violent, and entirely devoid of fear. The desperation of bankruptcy evaporated. He finally understood the game.

“You want the battery!” Zhang roared, slamming his fists together. A shockwave of dark Qi exploded from the impact, rattling the remaining intact windows of the Skybox. “You came for the First Court’s trash! You think you can walk in here, flash a shiny book, and take a piece of the Queen from a Warlord?”

He took a step toward the mahogany table.

“I accept your wager,” Zhang snarled, a cruel, bloodthirsty grin stretching across his scarred face. “But a blood-wager for a Sector isn’t settled with numbers on a screen. It is settled with blood. A physical duel.”

He pointed a massive iron finger at the shattered window.

“But I am not fighting your rusted metal dog,” Zhang dictated the terms, his eyes narrowing into slits. “And I am not fighting that Sword Saint currently freezing my sand.”

Zhang reached behind his velvet lounge and pulled a massive, heavy iron lever protruding from the wall.

CLANG.

Heavy blast shields slammed down over the shattered window, completely sealing the Skybox off from the arena pit below. The roar of the general admission bleachers vanished instantly.

Red Dog and Lingshan were locked outside.

I was locked inside.

“The duel happens right here,” Zhang said, drawing a massive, two-handed iron abacus from a magnetic lock on his back. The weapon was six feet long. Instead of wooden beads, heavy iron spheres the size of cannonballs lined the thick steel rods. “You and me. Locked in this room. No vanguard. No pets. You want my sector? You bleed for it.”

He slammed the heavy iron abacus against the carpet.

Thud.

The floorboards shattered.

“If I kill you,” Zhang growled, “your debts are wiped, your twelve billion transfers to my central bank, and I own Sector Nine. I will turn your little factory into a slaughterhouse.”

He looked at the burning characters on the mahogany table.

“Do we have an agreement, Auditor?” he mocked.

I looked at the heavy blast shields. I looked at the Warlord covered in First Era iron, armed with a weapon designed to crush armored vehicles. I felt the human frailty of my eighteen-year-old body. The bruised ribs. The exhaustion.

I looked at the Warlord.

“Yes,” I said.

I didn’t hesitate. I raised my right hand and dragged the blade of my thumb across the sharp, jagged edge of my cracked smartphone screen.

A line of hot, red blood welled up.

I pressed my bleeding thumb directly onto the dark mahogany wood, right below the glowing golden characters of the contract.

The blood sizzled. It boiled instantly, sinking into the wood and fusing with the Sovereign Law.

Zhang didn’t waste a second. He pulled a heavy combat knife from his belt, sliced his own thick palm, and slammed his bleeding hand onto the table opposite mine.

FLASH.

The Golden Ledger floating in the air snapped shut.

A blinding ring of heavy, golden chains erupted from the center of the mahogany table. The chains shot outward, slamming into the walls, the ceiling, and the locked obsidian elevator doors.

The System recognized the wager.

A heavy, automated voice echoed from the central bank terminals, completely overriding the margin call warnings.

BLOOD-WAGER INITIATED.

ASSETS LOCKED. SECTOR NINE COLLATERAL CONFIRMED.

SECTOR EIGHT COLLATERAL CONFIRMED.

COMBATANTS: BARON ZHANG VS. REN WU.

CONDITIONS: SUDDEN DEATH.

The neon tickers built into the intact walls of the Skybox stopped flashing numbers. They turned a solid, violent crimson. A single line of text scrolled across the glass.

SUDDEN DEATH.

SUDDEN DEATH.

The bankrupt aristocrats on the floor scrambled toward the corners of the massive suite, pressing themselves flat against the silk wallpaper, trying to escape the blast radius.

Zhang rolled his massive, iron-plated shoulders. He gripped the shaft of the giant iron abacus with both hands. The heavy iron beads clicked loudly as he shifted his stance.

“You made a mistake, boy,” Zhang sneered, the dark Qi rolling off his body in thick, suffocating waves. “You think you are playing a corporate game. But contracts only matter if you survive the room to file them.”

He took a heavy step forward, raising the massive weapon.

I reached into my jacket. I pulled the rusted hairpin from my pocket. I kept it tightly gripped in my left hand, letting the burning heat ground me in the physical reality of the moment.

With my right hand, I picked up my black umbrella.

“The negotiation is over,” I said.

[AUTHOR NOTE]

The doors are locked. The Vanguard is outside. 🚪🩸

Ren just put 12.8 Billion Silver and his entire factory on the table in a locked-room deathmatch against a Tier-4 Warlord wearing First Era armor. Zhang thinks he trapped a vulnerable corporate suit.

He forgot that the Auditor doesn’t need a sword to execute a fraudulent ledger.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep