Gambling Rhapsody: The Villainess Rises with Fists and Cheating - Blood and Wager Awakening (Debut)

The air was thick with the stench of tallow lamps and musty dampness. The fighter waiting room of the Pit Arena was a dim, stone-built chamber. Countless scars were carved into the walls—apparently, many fighters came here to harden their fists. Cassandra Vainford ran her quill across the parchment contract the receptionist handed her without a moment's hesitation. "Will this do?" The receptionist appraised the young woman with her scarred face as if sizing up merchandise. The rumors about her being former nobility seemed true. But on her left cheek, a fresh cross-shaped scar was still starkly etched. Her blazing red hair was tied up high, and her sharp golden eyes reflected the lamplight. "Yeah, contract's set. Your opponent's Gordo—former Kingdom Knight. Betting odds are 1 to 9. For you, well... the odds aren't exactly in your favor." Cassandra's lips slowly twisted. "1 to 9..." Her golden eyes gleamed fiercely. "Isn't that the perfect debut? The bigger the payout, the more it makes my blood burn." The receptionist instinctively held his breath. That number would make any normal rookie turn pale. But this woman looked at those odds and smiled like a gambler eyeing the grand prize. Inwardly, the man felt certain the nickname "Gambling Princess" was fitting. In the corner of the waiting room, a middle-aged man wrapping bandages around his hands watched her. Marcus—a free fighter in his forties. He had once wandered battlefields across the land as a mercenary before drifting into the Abyss Quarter five years ago. His left ear was cleanly sliced off, and old scars ran crisscross across his face. "Missy, got a minute?" Marcus stood and approached Cassandra. Seen up close, his body was far more solidly built than expected. The physique of a man who had survived the arena. "You're new, right? I'll give you one piece of advice. Here, fatal wounds are taboo. It lowers a fighter's market value. However," He showed her his left hand. His ring finger was missing from the first joint onward. "Fractures and dislocations are at your own risk. Also, the loser pays their own medical fees—5 chips. Got it?" Cassandra stared at the missing finger with an expressionless face. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind." "That's not all." Marcus lowered his voice. "Gordo's a freak who loves snapping rookies' left arms. Out of 17 wins, 9 were TKOs from breaking his opponent's bones. A delicate woman like you is his ideal prey. You can still forfeit now." Cassandra tilted her head slightly. "Are you worried about me?" "Of course I am. I don't want to see a young woman throw her life away in a place like this." Cassandra's mouth softened gently. "That's sweet. But," She stood up. Straightening her back, she fixed her golden eyes on Marcus. "I absolutely hate losing." At that fearless attitude, Marcus let out a breath as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "Hah... You're an interesting one, missy." He pulled a well-worn throwing knife from his pocket. A small weapon with a blade about fifteen centimeters long. "This is my specialty. Want to use it? Given who you're up against today, you'd be better off with a weapon." Cassandra glanced at the knife but shook her head. "Bare hands will be enough for today. For my debut, I need to be judged by nothing but my own body." She looked down at her own fists. On the back of her right hand, countless old scars accumulated since childhood were etched like a set of knuckle dusters. "...Besides," Her golden eyes gazed into the depths of the dark waiting room. "A gamble only has meaning when you bet on yourself." Those words carried a strangely absolute conviction. --- —The Pit Arena. The spectator stands, with a capacity of three hundred, were choked with heat and excitement. Smoke from tallow lamps hung thick, and countless shadows swayed against the walls. The roars of men, the sound of betting slips being brandished, and the thunderous noise echoing through the arena. A circular depression—a battlefield fifteen meters in diameter. On the sandy ground, Cassandra faced Gordo. Former Kingdom Knight Gordo. A hulking giant nearly two meters tall with bulging muscles, his log-like arms covered in countless scars honed in the arena. His trademark was the "Crusher's Grip"—a technique aimed at snapping his opponent's left arm. Many rookies before her had been driven to permanent injury by his hands. "A fallen noble brat, and she actually showed up!" "Little lady, that pretty face of yours is gonna get messed up good!" "Gordo! Crush her in one go, like always!" The cheers turned to jeers, mercilessly engulfing Cassandra. Gordo grinned. "Little miss, you like pain? Or do you want a man like me to break you to pieces?" Cassandra quietly raised her fists. "Is that all the chatter you've got?" In that instant, Gordo roared. His massive body charged in like a bullet. A right straight. Cassandra dodged by a hair's breadth, but the wind pressure alone felt like it could tear her skin. A second strike, a third. Evasion. Retreat. Right, then left. But the fourth strike—a left hook—grazed Cassandra's side. "Guh...!" Her ribs might have cracked. Pain shot through her. But her golden eyes still gleamed coldly. —No. This isn't pain. This is information. Her father Leonhardt's voice resurfaced in her mind. *"Listen, Cassandra. The essence of gambling is reading your opponent's next move. Dice, cards, and people too. Gestures, breathing, where their eyes go—everything is a tell."* Just before charging, Gordo always dropped his left shoulder. Before throwing a right straight, he unconsciously opened and closed his right hand once. And then— "ORAAAAAA!!" Gordo lunged into a clinch. Nearly two hundred kilos of weight crushed down on Cassandra's slender body. Slammed onto the sand, her vision blurred. The wound on her left cheek split open, and warm blood trickled down. —Ah, that's right. In her vision dyed red with blood, she was smiling. One more of her father's lessons. *"When you lose, double down."* The more you lose, the more you double your next bet. The more you lose, the hotter you burn. It's a path to ruin—and at the same time— —the path to the greatest comeback. Gordo seized her left arm. His enormous palm mercilessly clamped down on her slender wrist. One twist, and the bone would snap easily. But. Now. Cassandra's eyes flared with sudden brilliance. Gordo's weight was completely on his right foot. The moment he targeted her left arm, his center of gravity always shifted back and to the right. A habit she had observed, read, and accumulated—the culmination of all her gathered information. Her right elbow bent, then snapped upward. The target—his jaw. CRACK!! A dull sound rang out. The elbow strike caught the tip of Gordo's chin perfectly. The giant's brain rattled, and for an instant, his movements stopped. In that opening, Cassandra drove her knee into his solar plexus. "Guh...!!" The two-meter giant swayed and tilted. Cassandra mounted him and raised her fist. Her left hand was free again. With that fist, she pounded Gordo's face over and over. "This is my double return!!" One hit. Two. Three. Blood splattered across the sand. Gordo's face swelled up before their very eyes. The great crowd fell utterly silent. The spectators who had been jeering just moments ago now watched with bated breath. Who could have predicted this outcome? A rookie female fighter overturning the unfavorable 1-to-9 odds. Cassandra rose to her feet atop the fallen Gordo. Her face was smeared with blood and sweat. The blood flowing from the wound on her left cheek ran down her neck, staining her fighting clothes red. But her golden eyes blazed with an intensity never seen before. "Aha... ahahahahaha!!" A laugh bordering on madness thundered through the silenced Pit Arena. Her blood-drenched figure was beautiful. Terror, excitement, and captivation. One person in the stands murmured in a trembling voice. "The Gambling Princess..." Those words spread through the entire arena like ripples. "Gambling Princess!" "The gambling-crazed woman!" The victory pose. The referee raising her right arm. After a moment of silence, the Pit Arena was engulfed in a bizarre frenzy—a mix of thunderous cheers and furious roars. --- —The fighter waiting room. As Cassandra wrapped bandages around herself, she stared at the chip coins in her hand. Octagonal brass coins. Her first victory reward—50 pieces. Equivalent to roughly 125,000 yen. Clutched in her bloodied hand, a cool sensation pressed against her palm. At that moment, the waiting room door opened. "Hey, Gambling Princess. Congrats on your first win." The man who entered was in his early fifties. His gray hair was slicked back, and only his sharp eyes retained a youthful vigor. Bernt, the owner of the tavern "The Rusted Anchor." He had once been a fighter himself and, after retiring, had created a gathering place for fighters. "Who are you?" "I'm Bernt. I run the tavern 'The Rusted Anchor.' Heard a rookie took down Gordo, so I came to see for myself." Bernt gazed at Cassandra's scarred hands. "If you want info on your next match, come to my place. It's where the fighters gather. Also, your odds for the next fight—well, they'll probably tighten to around 1 to 5." Cassandra counted the chips she had just earned. 25 pieces. She casually held them out to Bernt. "Bet it all on me for my next match." Bernt's eyes widened. "Are you serious? That's your first paycheck." "What's wrong with betting on my own victory?" Cassandra's golden eyes emitted a near-mad light. "I'm a gambler. And a former duke's daughter. Let me teach you something—a woman with nothing left to lose is the most terrifying thing of all." Bernt stared at her in silence for a while. Eventually, he muttered quietly. "...Leonhardt." Cassandra's shoulders trembled slightly. "You knew my father?" "I knew him. That man had the same look in his eyes—he was the type who'd melt away everything at the gambling table. ...That nickname, Gambling Princess? Your old man was the first one they ever called that." Just then, Marcus, having finished wrapping his bandages, approached. "Hey, Bernt. That's enough of the old stories. ...More importantly, Gambling Princess. A word of warning." He lowered his voice, checking that no one else was around before speaking. "If you keep racking up consecutive wins, Nachtring will definitely send assassins after you." Cassandra's expression hardened. "Assassins?" "Yeah. Nachtring runs the arena gambling as the house. Fighters who make the odds impossible to manipulate get eliminated. Seems your old man once tried to walk the same path in this city. ...You don't need me to tell you how that ended, do you?" Her father. Involved with the Abyss Quarter. Something pounded fiercely deep in Cassandra's chest. She unconsciously clutched the ruby pendant. "...I see. Then I'll look forward to it." She stood and shoved the bloodstained chips into her pocket. "Just imagining what kind of gamble these so-called assassins will bring—and the moment I twist their faces with my own hands—" As she turned, a grin like a beast that had found its prey spread across her face. "It sends a thrill down my spine." In the dim underground light, the brass chips gleamed dully. In the blood-soaked arena, another dangerous woman had been born. Her battle had only just begun. But this city already knew. Talent is like gravity. Once it starts moving, no one can stop it.

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Episode 2

Name: Gambling Rhapsody: The Villainess Rises with Fists and Cheating
Author: Novelia

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