The weather was decent today, not as scorching as yesterday.

Reiji pushed himself up from the sprawling pile of bedrolls, Pokémon snoozing all around him. He stretched quietly and tiptoed off to the kitchen to get breakfast going for the little ones.

The rustle of him getting up woke Skinny, who slipped after him to the kitchen. The two of them moving around inevitably roused the Pokémon as well.

Once breakfast for the Pokémon was ready and served, Reiji and Skinny threw together something simple for themselves—two bowls of noodles would do.

Right then Chubbs wandered in and, by pure chance, caught them mid-slurp. Skinny asked if he’d eaten yet.

Predictably, Chubbs’ stomach answered for him, so Skinny headed back to the kitchen to cook another bowl of noodles.

After everyone had eaten, morning training began. Poliwhirl wanted to join in today. Reiji didn’t add the weights yet; he just told it to stick to its usual run. Once its injured arm was fully healed and the bandages came off, he’d start the weighted regimen.

With the Pokémon busy, he set off for his own jog; Chubbs huffed along behind Skinny.

Morning training wrapped up quickly. Reiji and Skinny prepped lunch—Chubbs was a lost cause, already flopped out from the run.

At lunch, Chubbs tore through bowl after bowl of rice. Reiji eyed the pantry and suspected the food he’d planned for two wouldn’t stretch much longer at this rate.

After the meal they napped. When Reiji woke, he packed up again, getting ready to visit Kingler’s instructor.

He always packed like he might not come back—every errand outside the villa was treated like the last one, a ready-to-run kit. With the match-fixing plan about to start, if someone came after him he could bolt. And if the pursuers weren’t strong, well, that was just delivery boys bringing him cash.

He checked the second address on his list. Unlike the place up north yesterday, this one was closer—south side of town—so he’d saved it for today.

It didn’t look far on paper from their west-side villa, and he considered walking, but realistically, hunting a single house by an address alone was a pain. He hailed a cab instead.

Skinny and Chubbs took another taxi. They were heading to the Sailors’ Bar so Skinny could hand his seed money to Grandpa and give him time to set things up.

Reiji told his driver to go straight to the address—faster that way.

He got out by the sea. The place was a beachside cabin on Kinnow’s southern shore, not far from the coconut-lined beach and the craftsman’s workshop.

This time the instructor wasn’t an old man. He knocked; no answer. After asking around, he learned the guy was a middle-aged lifeguard—currently on the beach.

So Reiji headed for the palms and sand. A few questions later and he found the man.

“Mr. Muta, I was sent by the old man from the tavern,” Reiji called up, releasing his Kingler so the lifeguard on the red swim trunks and lookout stand could see.

“That old man, huh? Got it. What do you want your Kingler to learn?” Muta peered down from the stand at Reiji and the Kingler by his feet. He had a Kingler of his own.

“I want Iron Defense, Swords Dance, and Amnesia,” Reiji said, straight to the point.

“Hm.” Muta rubbed the stubble on his chin, thought for a moment, then asked, “My Kingler knows all three. My rates aren’t cheap, though.”

“Money isn’t the issue. I want him to learn as fast as possible,” Reiji said, full rich-guy mode. Compared to the tens of millions he had, a few hundred thousand in fees was pocket change.

“OK.” Muta hopped down from the stand, landing in the soft sand beside Kingler.

“Let me ask you this: does your Kingler already know Harden and Agility?”

“It does. Is that a problem?” Reiji was puzzled why he’d ask something like that.

“Good. Harden and Agility are, in a way, related to Iron Defense and Amnesia. With those as a base, learning Iron Defense and Amnesia will go faster,” Muta explained.

“What are your rates, then?” Reiji had money, but he wasn’t a fool. If the price was nonsense, he’d walk.

“Since your Kingler has some foundation, I’ll charge fifty thousand for the pair, and a hundred thousand for Swords Dance. Two hundred thousand total.”

“Deal.” Hearing that, Reiji understood the earlier question—Muta had already given him a small cut.

Aside from the fake-booze bar owner, the knockoff-shop guy, and the street riffraff, most folks here were pretty decent, after all.

“You can start whenever,” Reiji said, handing over two hundred thousand. Then to Kingler: “Do exactly as Mr. Muta and his Kingler show you. Let’s learn these three as quickly as we can.”

“Leave it to me. I’ll have your Kingler up to speed fast,” Muta said, thumping his chest.

“My Kingler’s in your care. When do you get off? I’ll come pick him up.”

“I’m off at ten. Unless something urgent happens, I don’t leave my post,” the lifeguard said, checking his watch.

“I’ll swing back around six or seven. If anything gives him trouble, tell me,” Reiji added, then told Kingler, “I’ll be back at dusk. Train hard.”

“Kuruk!” Kingler raised its massive claws—got it.

“Relax. Meals included,” Muta joked, waving them off.

“Haha, thanks in advance,” Reiji replied, smiled, and left the beach.

Once he was out of sight, he released Pelipper and sent it to shadow Muta.

He wasn’t about to hand a Pokémon to a stranger without a backstop.

“Pelipper, Kingler’s on the beach learning from a lifeguard in red trunks. Watch over them for me—protect Kingler.”

“Pelip,” it nodded.

“Go—and don’t get spotted. Find a good perch and observe,” Reiji added, still uneasy.

“Pelip.” It nodded again, beat its wings, and flew toward the surf.

Reiji hailed another cab for the Sailors’ Bar—no flying mount, since Pelipper was on assignment.

He went straight upstairs; no need to bother the waitress—Grandpa would be in the same private room as always.

He knocked. “Come in,” someone called. Inside were just Skinny and the old man, deep in discussion.

“Bro, you’re here?” Skinny blinked in surprise.

“Kingler’s set. I had time, so I came over,” Reiji said, sitting and shooting the old man a look: how far had they gotten?

“Perfect timing,” Grandpa said, reading the look. “Skinny just gave me the cash and we’re talking distribution. Since you’re here, I’ll run it by you.”

“Lay it out,” Reiji said.

“Counting your one million, Skinny’s one million, and my one million, that’s three million in principal. I’ll split it across bets, never more than five hundred thousand per wager.

“I won’t show up in person. Before your matches, the principal will already be in play on other trainers. After your match, I’ll place one or two more bets and step out of the book until the next day.

“Skinny says he’ll always bet on you to win. Fine—it’s only tens of thousands; nothing. When you want out, we’ll take total profit, subtract the principal, and split it three ways. How’s that?”

“Works for me,” Reiji said after a beat. “Let’s start right away. Remember the signals: one knock is a loss, two is a win.”

“Got it,” Grandpa said, exhaling a thin line of smoke. “With that many eyes on you, the book can’t signal you live, not even hint. If you carry anything communicative, they’ll get suspicious. Someone will tell you the outcomes beforehand.”

Which was exactly why they couldn’t cut the book out and freeload. If the book lost, suspicion would land right on Reiji, the guy in the ring.

By working with the house, he became an insider; wins and losses were under their control, so no need to suspect him. And Skinny always betting on Reiji to win was part of the camouflage, too—proof for the house that Skinny didn’t know the results. Even if he did, he’d still be betting the “clean” side.

Then came the part where both sides lulled the gamblers. After the money came in, well—”the gentry get every coin returned, the commoners get a seventy–thirty split”—the old saying fit a little too well.

As for who the “gentry” were? No need to spell it out.

And there weren’t any “commoners” here, only gamblers—comfortably well-off ones.

Aside from the orphanage crowd, people here lived very well. No worries about food and clothes—which explained the sheer number of gamblers.

As for that seventy–thirty split? Reiji didn’t care; the house would decide how much anyone saw anyway.

So when he felt angry later, that would be just right—his frown would make some people very happy indeed. And when those people were happy, not knowing what he knew, he’d be happy too—wake-up-laughing happy.

With the plan set, Reiji and Skinny went downstairs to the bar counter. He ordered a glass of water; Skinny got a juice. Time to wait for “fate” to knock.

They didn’t wait long. A stranger slipped him a note and told him to meet at the back door.

Behind the mask, Reiji’s mouth curled. He pulled up his hood and motioned Skinny to follow.

Outside, the same slick, big-backed middle-aged man from last night was waiting.

“Well? Have you decided?” Old A asked.

“Fine. Thirty percent. Three matches a day,” Reiji said, holding up three fingers—for both the cut and the match count.

Old A looked delighted. Another deal closed; he’d get his commission. The “thirty percent” was a lie he fed to recruits, of course—he was just a fixer with no say over the book’s split. But he kept his cool to reassure Reiji there’d be no issues getting paid.

“Don’t worry. It’s flexible. You get paid right after the match. If you want out, just refuse the note before the fight.”

“What’s the process?” Reiji asked. He didn’t actually know how they pushed outcomes.

“This note has today’s results. From now on another person will deliver them—don’t worry about that. Do as it says. After the match, someone will bring the money to this bar. Wait half an hour and collect.”

Old A slipped him a folded paper, then lowered his voice. “You seem decent, so a friendly warning: losing on command is easy. Winning on command—be careful. If you drop a match that was supposed to be a win, they’ll ask you to make up the loss.”

Heh. Of course there was a catch. So that was the trap. And “they” obviously meant the house. The muscle they hired would be, at minimum, senior-class. It made him think of the big bruiser brothers from before—exactly the type to do this kind of dirty work.

While he was mulling that over, Old A had already left. Reiji unfolded the note: lose the first, lose the second, win the third.

He tore the paper into confetti and dropped it in the trash.

Skinny would always bet on him to win anyway, so whether he showed Skinny the note didn’t matter. Grandpa had his own signals; it mattered even less.

There was another reason not to show Skinny: Reiji suspected he was being watched. The surveillance would probably end only after the fights.

Which was fine. An actor’s job is to act.

Life is a play, and the stage bleeds into the wings. Onstage or off, it’s all the same show—

A self-written, self-directed play.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep