John was stopped by the bodyguard.

While waiting at the door, he took one last look below—the sofas designed to match the environment and space, and the high-end bar with hollowed-out pillars filled with exquisite glass bottles, were all filled with socialites raising their glasses.

The Bolago ring finals were a feast.

The boxers cared about money, honor, and the future.

The spectators cared about violence, bloodshed, and emotion.

The gamblers cared about odds, wins, and surprises.

And in the higher levels above the central ring, in this area of bright lights and feasting…

Someone was at ease.

They did not even need to step into the scene or linger in the air thick with stimulants and blood, yet they still played an important role in this competition.

John caught a whiff of perfume.

It turned out the powerful had their own kind of stimulant.

He rubbed his itchy nose and, under the guard’s sharp watch, pushed open the door to meet his real employer.

Bone Shards was not tall.

Amidst these muscular black men around him, he seemed like an odd one out. Yet those fierce and bulging men all treated this one head shorter white man with respect.

The office was minimalistic too.

It once belonged to Vito, at the time of the Bolago Club’s construction, belonging to a certain management of Jingke Heavy Industry. It didn’t have much trace of Bone Shards.

The Black Gold Gang emphasized personal elements.

Like gold, graffiti, muscles.

Mr. Vito enjoyed retro handmade suits and high-end cigars, as well as a particular tone and style.

Bone Shards lacked such things.

He was a very “ordinary” dangerous person, who wouldn’t feel out of place at the depths of any high-end club’s office.

For an outsider, it’s hard to imagine—he is at the top echelon of the Black Gold Gang, the absolute core of power.

Bone Shards leaned casually against the railing.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he looked down at the hovercars continuously landing and taking off in the central garden, possessing the oppressive aura of a falcon surveying its territory.

“Quick action.”

Bone Shards turned around, glanced at the approaching John, waved his hand as a signal, and the bodyguard nodded and exited the office, closing the door behind John.

He donned a suit jacket, shirtless underneath, and his bare chest was covered with Gothic tattoos—not the usual skulls and alien scripts associated with the Black Gold Gang, but rather a series of more exquisite patterns, like murals on old church windows.

“Disappointed I’m back alive?”

John headed towards the sofa by himself, only noticing as he got closer that there was a girl lying sideways on it, breathing evenly, seemingly asleep.

She had an air of indifference.

Her profile was very beautiful, the artificial leather was of a very high-end style, and her colored hair draped over her shoulder like a small blanket.

This woman often appeared at Bone Shards’ side.

Thump thump.

Bone Shards tapped on the table gently, drawing back John’s attention.

“Regarding the reward, I’m giving you one more chance. Do you want to get in the ring, or go for an encounter in the Steel Hot Forest? Both are equivalent, something ordinary people might never experience in a lifetime.”

John did not answer.

“Alright, then we’ll talk about another business.”

Bone Shards raised a hand, abandoning the persuasion, and sent an email over.

Inside was a set of boxer profiles.

[Name: Reagan Patrick [Crocodile]]

[Faction: Isaac Military Industry]

The “Crocodile” in the photo looked fierce.

He had no eyebrows, half of his lower jawbones were replaced with soft metal, broad shoulders, a thick waist, small ears, with a clear European descent.

The light in John’s artificial eye dimmed as he asked.

“What does this mean?”

“Your demands are too high. If you want to get on the big stage tonight, and it has to be grand enough, after filtering, you can only fight Reagan [Crocodile].”

Bone Shards sat at the desk, crossed his legs, with his chest with black thorn tattoos facing John.

“The opponent’s set, yet there’s more to discuss on the details.”

He rubbed his forehead bone, scrutinizing the mercenary in front of him, speaking in a slightly mocking tone.

“Based on the bets placed, the casino odds give you a 70% chance of death. To be honest, I also think your win rate is low.”

John frowned slightly.

Bone Shards noticed and waggled his finger.

“Don’t be indignant, mercenary, this is a professional boxing match. Crocodile is a seed player for the championship. In other words, he is one of the people in this city who knows best how to kill his opponent in the ring.”

“Are you concerned for me or trying to scare me?”

“Neither.”

Bone Shards shook his head lightly. “The rules need to be clarified. Even if you’re allowed to cut in line and get on stage, winning won’t earn you any prize money or material rewards.”

This goes against the norms.

It would lead other powerful stakeholders to insert more uncontrollable elements into the match, disrupting the gang’s control over boxing matches.

John chuckled. “Usually, when people say that, it’s followed by a ‘but.'”

“Exactly. Although everyone thinks you’ll die in the ring, I’m still willing to invest in you, John. I want you to survive more rounds, to hold on without dying or getting knocked out…”

As Bone Shards spoke, his eyes were fixed on John.

His gaze was fierce, his tone calm, and everything that came out of his mouth was always about business with blood and risk.

The Black Gold Gang’s cultivated finalist had died.

Reagan Patrick was a contracted boxer with Isaac Military Industry, with great strength and a large championship hope.

The odds were overwhelmingly against them now.

The Black Gold Gang would lose a lot of money.

Bone Shards didn’t hope John could eliminate the opponent, but that the more rounds he endured, the longer he persisted, the more the gang could recover its losses.

“What if I kill him?”

John asked unexpectedly.

Bone Shards’ lips curved into a smile, not mocking, but rather seriously telling him.

“I will, in my own name, present you with a reward, including a huge sum of money, ownership of the Dan Street Apartment you reside in now, and a custom weapon contract for the champion.”

“Deal.”

John agreed readily.

The door to the office opened again.

The bodyguard who had left returned with several black briefcases and pushed a mobile surgery table inside.

John sat in the chair.

The mechanical arms on either side connected his wrists to data cables, while an overhead scanner slid past, recording his biometric information amidst the dizzying exposure, with dense data streaming through the depths of his pupils.

They were modifying boxer information, matching biological data, fabricating fake tournament records—to make John appear eligible to stand in the final ring.

John suppressed the Black Light—not to invade or overwrite the devices, just protect them.

This identity system appeared very sophisticated and fragile; if Black Light messed it up, it would be hard to get a new one before stepping into the ring.

Additionally, his physical condition was too poor to bear the burden of using Black Light.

As John daydreamed, words flashed before his eyes.

[Series Mission Arena [Final]-One Night Star]

[Reward: Cash Prize, Property – Dan Street Apartment 013 [Single Apartment], Custom Weapon (Unknown).]

This was the first time he had three missions running concurrently.

The main mission of investigating the accident’s truth, the mission with the roaming AI to save his life, and now a new arena-related series mission.

The electronic devices were still running.

The bodyguards in black suits were diligently operating.

John’s freed mind began contemplating the series mission.

His first encounter with a series mission was through winning a small illegal boxing match organized by the Black Gold Gang, acquiring a Fighting Chip and melee weapon. Later, when Jilead rampaged in the boxing ring, John stopped him and triggered another underground fighting series mission.

These missions seemed to share a common theme.

They were all interconnected.

There was a sequential relationship.

Besides [Arena], John had encountered two other series missions:

One related to Barry Kit’s [Black Cop], the other to Chavez Restaurant’s [Operator].

John suddenly thought of a question.

[Series Mission Arena [Final]]

Was this the last mission of the series?

How was it determined to be the end? Was it that he’s completed all the prerequisite missions, or had he reached a certain point, made some key decisions that directly triggered the final mission?

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep