Aran Imperial City, Continent Martial Arts Arena.
When contestant number 777, Saleret, once again violently defeated his opponent,
Galen finally felt relieved.
He didn't understand why this tattooed minor next to him was involved in such high stakes, but it was none of his concern. Just a ten percent commission was enough for him to live a life of indulgence.
Saleret successfully won the third round, entering tomorrow's bloody fourth round on September 8th.
"You've got an eye for things, don't you!"
Gren enthusiastically patted Galen's shoulder, "How did you know he was that powerful? Do you know him or something? So cool, the masked man! He's truly my lucky star!"
She had no idea that the iron-faced man had been watching over her father's tower for six or seven years; in a sense, it was quite fateful.
Galen was totally immersed in blissful joy; there was no doubt Liszt was his benefactor, and after meeting him, his life completely turned around—from a rogue adventurer to a big shot.
Not only did he know Saleret, but he had also visited the Cloud Palace brothel with him.
But what kind of person is Ghost Eye Mad Blade? Being able to restrain even facing those alluring elf girls, how could he be ordinary?
Galen is one to repay kindness; someday, if Liszt returns to Aran, it would be his turn to host him.
Gren had already won big by now, "calling her ultimate rich sister wouldn't be an exaggeration."
The following games had odds gradually stabilizing, directly betting tens of thousands would certainly alarm Aran's high-level officials.
If a person can come up with a cash flow of ten thousand, they are absolutely the epitome of wealth, like the nouveau riche Lord Dor who made his fortune from iron mining, Nishi's father-in-law, whose self-generating assets far exceed that figure, but gathering them instantly isn't so easy.
Gren's foundation was completely transparent, the source of her gambling funds and all martial arts betting records were traceable, but she dared not bet everything—that was terrifying.
Under Galen's guidance, along with timely analysis and luck, after deducting thousands of Golden Dragons from government taxes, she had already won forty to fifty thousand. If Gren had micromanaged a bit last year, she could've been a wave like Alsace. These few bets even rivaled the train heist, terrifying as hell—this is the gambling prowess of Meili.
Galen only took a ten percent commission, still wealthier than some powerless earls of non-Five Constant Countries.
Jiang Chengzi · Qianjin Sanjin Hai Fula.
Holy Spirit Calendar, 27th Century, Galen [Authored]
Guild old brother steady as a rock, ballroom, ball handler.
Blindly press zero, it's transcendental forgetfulness.
Drinking, gambling, whoring, all are done, flaunt scars, do jail time.
A thousand gold thrown into the heavens, soak tiger whip, defy immortals.
Heroic spirit beats the clouds, not seeking eternal fame.
Steal jade, snatch fragrance in the night, drink big booze, punch the marble.
Galen, having gotten into Black Sail through connections, worked in Duguli, always feeling overshadowed by Ben, Violet, and the likes, but now things were different. Google seaʀᴄh novel⟡fire.net
What he didn't realize was that currency was merely a cog in the power system; having money alone can only be squandered—for many, that's sufficient, but to become part of the power system itself is far from enough.
"By the way, who exactly do you want to kill?"
Galen remembered Gren mentioning needing so much money to buy someone's life, not knowing who was worth that much.
Through high-stakes gambling, Gren had entirely considered Galen a friend.
Doringger's childhood friend had supported Gren like a noble daughter, previously socializing mainly with arrogant rich girls whom Gren utterly disregarded.
Galen was the one with genuine skills, and he was also in high spirits, getting carried away as his words slipped out.
"Liszt, do you know about him?"
Gren casually said, cupping her hands over her mouth to amplify her voice, imitating other gamblers cheering for Saleret in the arena.
Gren hadn't spoken a word to Doringger or seen him in person.
Apart from receiving money, there was no interaction.
Directive family relationships were improper; many families enjoyed impressing upon their children how tough things were for them, filling them with hard-to-digest negative emotions—even adults struggle with them, let alone children.
This gradual impact might make one perceive even love as costly, using it as collateral, leading eventually to transcendental forgetfulness. With independence comes night marcial violence, drinking without end, hitting walls without end.
Of course, some might be naturally born 'night marcial saints'—these individuals are typically described with two words, 'connected to Immortal Emperor.'
Doringger's nurturing was exceptional; his childhood friend afforded Gren the most comfortable life, occasionally hinting once a year that all the money came from her biological father far away in lawless territory.
This unspoken unconditional giving.
Infinite daydreaming...
Even if Lord Dor's product was pure organic herbal toxin, the fiercest in the junkie community.
But these were irrelevant.
Doringger's death early in the year, widely discussed, had been somewhat demonized with embellishments by various old brothers.
Rumor had it Liszt was three meters tall, with four arms, tremendous strength, could go seven days without sleep, his beard woven on the warrant actually sea demon tentacles, every meal needing human flesh, especially virginal.
Due to Doringger's early promotion, commissioning ghostwriters to compose books glorifying the East Sea, he typically appeared harmless as a merchant.
Comparatively, Doringger, poisoned and fighting with all his might yet unable to overcome Liszt's despicable antics, dragged to death, and finally struck with a knee jab, folding Lord Dor into a screen.
Gren certainly felt deep resentment—that was inevitable.
Galen's mind went blank—not only knew, he had even caught him half a year ago at sea.
He had this feeling during that time; Liszt was sensational, known as Northern Prison's OG, and taking over as Eastern Sea Lord had a group of male fans.
Female fans differ from male ones; Nether Star Plague People only attract male fans.
Galen was one of them—all admiration; damn real men should crazily take everything, Liszt completely satisfied all fantasies of killing and crimes.
So Galen was very attentive to that matter and heard from various news outlets roughly what Doringger looked like.
No wonder the first time he saw this girl he felt a tinge of familiarity; now her brow slightly resembling, damn striking resemblance inherited—it's of the sort needing a paternity test, doctors would earwax for you shoveling up, that degree.
"What, are you scared? Hmm-hmm... rest assured, I won't involve you, though this funding greatly helps, I will specially hire a mercenary company to safeguard your safety until Liszt is dealt with."
Only after killing Liszt.
Gren's life wouldn't be paused at early spring of 2690; she could start anew.
It wasn't about money—it's not even about him being Liszt's man.
Moreover, you're absolutely naïve, newborn calves aren't afraid of tigers—given your easily led, lollipop-snagged personality, across is... Hell, it's not even about murderers; these folks really pull out intestines, weave them into cat's cradle.
You clap one, I clap one, play games with bodies. You clap three, I clap three, Ye Kai kicks Ban flying.
Straight launches you up, damn!
"I advise you to reconsider."
Currently, Galen isn't planning to report this to Black Sail, really feeling this little girl is Silver Wings.
"Absolutely impossible, today I can already search for mercenaries, those black-clad homecoming catch anything also completely chased away, hmm-hmm."
Gren folded her arms, dragon whale tattoo on flower arm fiercely ominous, yet totally contrasting with her pure smile.
Galen realized he must do something to stop this girl from her reckless path.