Chapter 1501: Chapter 1501

In front of them, there’s a vast glass dome reinforced with lattices of polished steel, its surface pulsing faintly with blue neon veins that traced along the structure like living circuits.

The dome stood on a raised, diamond-shaped platform, gleaming against the rain-slick streets, an architectural marvel of symmetry and cold precision. Every edge was sharp, every reflection deliberate, the kind of beauty only wealth and machinery could create.

One by one, sleek cars glided to a stop at the base of the grand staircase. Valets in dark uniforms moved swiftly under the neon glow, their gestures efficient and silent. Doors lifted upward, and from each vehicle stepped the city’s elite men and women, draped in luxurious haute couture.

Their attire shimmered beneath the lights: gowns made of liquid-fabric silk that shifted color with each movement, tailored suits lined with luminous thread, and jewelry that caught and fractured the glow into scattered constellations.

Perfume lingered faintly in the damp air, mixing with the electric scent of rain and ozone. They ascended the stairs with practiced grace, their reflections gliding across the wet marble like ghosts of privilege, vanishing one by one beneath the glowing arch of the dome.

Moments later, a black sedan pulled up to the grand entrance. The valet hurried forward as the car came to a smooth stop. A polished leather shoe touched the ground first, followed by a man with sleek black hair in a tailored black suit. His expression was tight and serious, just like any subordinate should be.

He opened the passenger door behind him. A man stepped out, broad-shouldered, rough-edged, his presence carrying the weight of a life earned, not inherited.

The brown suit he wore was exquisite, its fabric gleaming under the lights, but it sat on him with the stiffness of someone still growing used to luxury.

For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, taking in the sight of the glittering dome ahead. Then he drew a slow breath, straightened his collar, and adjusted his cuffs as if rehearsing confidence.

Clift, satisfied by Samuel’s action, as expected from a professional. Later, he handed the car keys to the valet with effortless grace, his every motion smooth and deliberate, and fell in step a pace behind.

As they climbed the wide marble stairs, conversation among the guests began to dim. Heads turned. Glances slid their way, sharp, assessing, and fleetingly dismissive. In this world, judgment came in the silence between words.

To the onlookers, the verdict was instant: the man in brown was the master, the one in black his aide. Yet to discerning eyes, the truth was plain; he was new money, and his composure was still an unfinished act.

A few exchanged glances, the corners of their lips curling into polite, mocking smiles. Samuel caught them but didn’t flinch. Clift, unreadable as ever, continued upward without pause. Their pace was steady, their posture impeccable, refusing the world its satisfaction.

At the entrance, Clift produced two invitations, black, embossed with gold. The attendant inspected them, then stepped aside with a courteous bow. "Welcome, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening."

Clift nodded lightly. After that, Samuel and Clift crossed the threshold. The world inside bloomed in gold and glass. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above a sea of gowns and tailored suits, every movement a practiced performance of wealth.

The air was fragrant with champagne and ambition. Silver trays glided between murmured laughter and restrained applause, and music from a string quartet spilled through the air like liquid silk.

The attendant led them through the lavish hall and into a private elevator. As it ascended, Samuel’s reflection flickered across mirrored walls, refined now, but not yet one of them.

When the elevator doors parted on the fifth floor, they stepped into the VIP box, quiet, elevated, and commanding a sweeping view of the arena below.

The sight was breathtaking: a colosseum reborn in glass and steel. The vast, elliptical amphitheater curved beneath a shimmering dome of reinforced glass, designed not only for spectacle but for safety, ensuring the audience could indulge in danger without ever feeling its touch.

Down below, the arena floor stretched wide, its polished surface reflecting the glow of the overhead lights. Above, a colossal jumbotron hung like a suspended crown, broadcasting every strike, every scream, every breath of the performance in perfect clarity.

Around the arena, tiers of private boxes and terraces radiated outward, filled with the elite. They sat at round tables draped in white linen and candlelight, dining as if at a royal banquet.

Crystal glasses caught the flicker of the chandeliers; silver cutlery glinted with each delicate motion. Waiters in pristine uniforms moved silently between them, refilling wine, replacing plates, maintaining the illusion that this was not a bloodsport, but an art form.

Laughter and polite conversation rippled through the air, mingling with the distant sound of the arena preparing below. The rich leaned back in their velvet chairs, watching the world’s most dangerous games unfold, savoring both the meal and the spectacle as if they were one and the same.

A moment later, a waiter entered their box with practiced grace. He poured wine into crystal glasses, the liquid catching the golden light, and handed them elegant menus bound in black leather. After taking their orders, he bowed slightly and slipped out, leaving the room in hushed quiet.

Clift reached into his suit and retrieved a sleek pair of glasses, no ordinary lenses, but a scanning device. The frame glowed faintly as he put them on, data flickering across the surface like ripples of light. His gaze swept across the arena, scanning each section methodically until his eyes narrowed.

"There," he murmured. "Found him."

Through the tinted lenses, the system tagged a man seated in a VIP booth on the sixth floor, Igor Renovich. The scientist looked animated, almost giddy, gesturing wildly as he spoke. But it wasn’t Igor who caught Clift’s attention next; it was the figure seated beside him.

Clift’s brows lifted slightly, a sharp grin tugging at his lips.

"Well, well," he muttered. "Look who decided to show up."

Samuel glanced over, curiosity piqued. "Who is it? What do you see?" he put on the glasses from his suit, then looked in the same direction as Clift.

"Samuel Lockwood," Clift said softly, lowering his voice to a dangerous calm. "In Zenon... how interesting." His grin faded, replaced by a cold glint in his eyes, a predator recognizing another.

"A Paladin in Luxemborough, could it be any more obvious?" Samuel scoffed.

Though Sean had altered his appearance, without the Versipell potion, the technology from N.I.M.S. could still detect certain telling features, for instance, his iris.

It could be changed with a shapeshifting spell, but such tricks were easily undone by anti-glamour wards embedded in every surveillance camera.

Moments later, the jumbotron blazed to life, its colossal screen flooding the arena with light. A roar erupted from the crowd as the camera zoomed in on the announcer, a figure dressed in a sleek, metallic suit that shimmered under the neon floodlights. He raised the microphone with a showman’s grin, voice amplified across the vast dome.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Valkyrium Arena!" he boomed, his tone pulsing with energy. "Tonight, we bring you a spectacle unlike any other: Claws against Fury! only the strongest will walk out alive!"

The audience thundered in response, chanting and stomping as spotlights sliced through the haze.

"Get ready, citizens of Zenon!" the announcer roared, his voice echoing across the vast arena. He paced across the stage, lights flashing behind him as the ground began to tremble. Metal panels slid open with a deep mechanical groan, revealing the colossal battlefield below, a shifting maze of steel and sand.

"Because tonight..." he raised his hand toward the roaring crowd, "...the beasts rise, and blood will be spilled!" He thrust his arm downward. "Now, let the battle begin!"

The right gate rumbled open first, releasing a blinding mist. From it emerged Zantera, a massive centipede-like creature, its armored segments glinting under the arena lights, mandibles clattering with anticipation.

Then, from the left gate, came Fangore, a towering lion-beast with a mane that unfurled like crimson petals, its face eerily resembling a blooming flower lined with teeth.

The two giant beasts faced each other across the battlefield, muscles coiling, the air thick with tension. A low growl rolled through the arena, then another. The crowd fell silent as the creatures began to move, circling, testing, waiting for the first strike.

A heartbeat later, the clash began. The roar of the crowd erupted, echoing through the massive dome.

"How much are we betting on this one?" Samuel leaned back in his chair, a small tablet glowing in his hand.

Clift glanced down at the fight below, his tone casual. "Five million on Zantera."

"Not a bad start." Samuel tapped the number, and the screen flashed—Bet Accepted. The source of thɪs content is 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝⁂𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖⁂𝕟𝕖𝕥

Clift’s eyes flicked toward Igor, who was screaming like a lunatic at the fight below. For a man once called a genius inventor, he looked more like a gambling addict chasing his last high. A moment later, he turned his eyes to Sean Lockwood.

Across the booth, Sean lounged in his seat, one arm draped over the chair, his eyes half-lidded with boredom. He sipped his wine, thumb scrolling lazily through his phone. Then, something changed. He froze mid-swipe.

His head lifted abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the crowd like a wolf catching a scent. He looked left. Then right. A faint frown crossed his face.

By the time he turned toward Clift’s booth, the man was already facing away, calm and composed, as if he’d never moved at all. Sean feel something peculiar about the man, thus he studied him for a moment, suspicion flickering behind his eyes, but Clift looked perfectly at ease, his posture unbothered.

Coincidentally, the waiter arrived right then, serving dinner and coffee with quiet precision. Their calm demeanor make Sean second-guess himself, he takes a deep breath, thinking it was just his imagination. Sean brushed the thought aside, and all of a sudden, a roar tore through the arena.

"What the fu*k! I lost!" Igor shouted, clutching his head as the crowd erupted in laughter and noise.

Sean turned just in time to see Fangore collapse under Zanthera’s strike, the arena lights flashing crimson. Igor screamed in despair, like a man watching his fortune go up in flames.

Sean let out a scornful smile. For someone who could rival Ethan Hamilton’s intelligence, Igor had the worst luck when it came to gambling. Not once had he ever won, yet he kept coming back, throwing money at the pit like an idiot chasing ghosts. No wonder, even with all his abilities, he never became rich.

’What a fool,’ Sean thought — but he wasn’t the only one thinking that.

Clift watched Igor’s face twist in frustration as the numbers flashed red across the screen, another loss. Igor’s jaw clenched, his hand gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. The roar of the crowd only seemed to fuel his agitation.

Then, without hesitation, he snatched the tablet from the table, eyes wide and gleaming with feverish light. His fingers trembled as he scrolled through the options, muttering under his breath before slamming in a new wager.

A faint smirk tugged at Clift’s lips. Such a compulsive addict. He wouldn’t be hard to manipulate.