Chapter 188
Chapter 188
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 188
Chapter Title: Illegal Fight Night (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Oliver arrived in X District by taxi.
Just yesterday, he'd been staying at the grand mansion on the hill, but Merlin had unceremoniously kicked him out, citing the mountain of preparations needed before entering the Magic Tower.
He felt a twinge of regret leaving the mansion with its attached library, but he wasn't too disheartened.
He'd read pretty much all the books he needed, and he'd even swiped a few on his way out.
Not that it had been intentional, but he decided to look on the bright side and head to Dave's to catch up on all the backlog. Balance in life was important, after all.
"Well, well, if it isn't the fixer who ghosted us after diligently hitting the gym?"
A rough voice, exaggerated yet more jovial than grating.
Oliver turned toward the sound and spotted Gym Owner Dinkley standing amid a crowd of burly men. Small in stature but larger than life in presence.
He approached Oliver and asked,
"Back for more training?"
Dinkley drew near, sipping his special health tonic.
Whether it was the tonic's doing or not, his muscles looked even more developed.
Not bigger, just denser. His life force had noticeably increased, in fact.
"Hello, sir. You look healthy."
"Healthy? That's all you've got to say?!"
Dinkley flexed, his muscles straining against his skin like they might burst free. He was immensely proud of them.
"I've gotten even stronger. This bursting presence is proof... So, I'll ask again. Here to train?"
To adjust his schedule around Magic Tower matters, Oliver had focused solely on fixer gigs for a few days, putting the gym— which he'd deemed lower priority—on hold.
Dinkley had been furious, ranting about how training wasn't a joke, but some things couldn't be helped.
Once Oliver explained and promised to keep paying dues, Dinkley came around.
'Work comes first, of course! Yeah!!'
He'd even said he'd wait for Oliver's return to the gym, and it didn't seem like empty words.
The joy radiating from him now was proof enough.
But regrettably, Oliver would have to disappoint him again.
"Yes, I'm here to train today. But I doubt I'll be able to come regularly going forward."
"Aw, damn it. Why? I heard your fixer gigs are drying up, but that's exactly when you need to stay in shape."
"You're right. It's just... personal circumstances."
"Personal circumstances? ...Well, is it important?"
Dinkley dropped his gruff demeanor for a moment, asking cautiously.
That was his way.
He flaunted his muscles, bellowed constantly, and acted tougher than anyone in this thug-infested place, but at the right moment, he knew how to show consideration and listen.
In fact, quite a few members, Joe included, had sought his counsel when they needed help.
It made sense, really. He was essentially a businessman supplying fighters to X District's illegal fight nights.
"Yes, I can't go into details, but it's important to me."
"Fair enough... But no discounts. Fewer visits are on you."
"Understood. That's why I brought a few months' dues in advance."
Oliver pulled a slim wad of bills from his pocket. Barely two fingernails thick, but high-denomination notes made it no small sum.
Especially in X District.
Dinkley took the crisp bundle, inhaled its scent blissfully, and blurted,
"...Did I ever tell you I love you?"
"Uh... No."
"Remember it from now on. I love you."
Dinkley pocketed the cash as he said it.
"Alright, let's make the most of it before you skip out again. Start with back day."
Oliver nodded and stripped off his top to get ready.
The gym had no heat or even winter gear, so the cold bit deep, but he ignored it.
"...By the way, sir, do you know where Joe is? He's usually here, but I don't see him."
Oliver glanced around as he asked.
"Joe? He's got a fight tonight, so he didn't show. Fight night... Why? You interested?"
Dinkley grinned and asked.
By the time training wrapped up, night had fallen.
Oliver wiped down with a wet towel afterward.
Muscle fatigue made movement awkward right after, but instead of resting, he changed clothes and prepared to head out.
"All set?"
Dinkley asked, clad in a long coat lined with fur.
On his short frame, the coat dragged like a cape, but his confident swagger and build turned it into high fashion.
"Yes, ready."
"You took a real beating and held up fine. No wonder you're such a hotshot fixer."
"Thanks for the praise."
"Not flattery. I don't do that crap... I'm heading out. You guys clean up."
Dinkley barked at the gym staff, then led Oliver deeper into X District.
"So, what do you know about these fight nights?"
"Just what Joe told me. Said it's one of the few money-makers around here."
Dinkley barked a laugh.
"Not wrong. Yeah, in this hellhole, it's the best bet for cash. Of course, illegal fights aren't exactly groundbreaking in this city."
That was true. Even J District's outskirts had plenty of small-time venues, and other districts were no different.
"But X District runs the biggest shows."
Not bravado—pure confidence. Oliver asked why.
"Why? Simple. Most fun. This city might look like a cesspool, but other districts have some baseline rules thanks to police control. Even their illegal fights don't cross certain lines."
"...Meaning X District does?"
"See for yourself. This way."
They passed a sign reading "X District Central" into a square packed with massive buildings.
Heavily rundown, some half-constructed and abandoned.
Oliver recalled a story from Double-Gun Sam.
Corruption scandal toppled a councilman mid-development, followed by terrorism and accidents that halted everything, leaving X District in ruins...
They'd aimed for a decent industrial zone, and the huge central buildings suggested it wasn't a lie.
But over half stood frozen mid-build, casting a desolate air.
"Fights happen here. This way."
Dinkley ducked into a back alley.
Narrow but clean and maintained. Soon, they faced a chain-link fence with a back door inside.
Dinkley rummaged in a wall corner and buzzed.
Bzzz—a faint signal.
A bald, fat man emerged from the back door.
"Who the hell—! ...Dinkley?"
The thug's scowl melted instantly. He even bowed politely.
"What brings you here?"
"Why do you think? Here to watch fights."
"Then use the front door. Why the staff entrance?"
"Crowds trample my coat."
Dinkley shook it demonstratively. Yeah, it'd snag in a mob.
"Ugh... Still, you can't—"
The fat man grumbled but hurried over and unlocked the gate.
Dinkley patted him reassuringly.
"Sorry, sorry. Wasn't planning to, but a guest wanted to spectate on short notice."
Dinkley thumbed back at Oliver.
The fat man squinted at Oliver, then told Dinkley,
"Fine, just this once. Even if you supply fighters, don't abuse the staff path."
"Got it, got it. Come to the gym later; I'll train you."
"I hate working out."
The fat man led Dinkley through the back door.
A staff lounge, packed with gangsters waiting.
Typical back-alley gear: trench clubs, axes. Even rare guns for poor X District.
Proof of tight security.
Dinkley greeted them casually and led Oliver out.
A bustling corridor full of people. Cheers mixed with shouts echoed from somewhere.
"Hear that thrill? This is X District's cash cow fight joint. Local groups run it together. Remember: common sense rules here."
"Groups?"
The odd term made Oliver double-take. He'd assumed gangs.
"Yeah... Seen any cops on the way?"
"No."
"Figures. City's half-abandoned this place. Folks stuck here had to protect themselves from thieves, robbers, killers... Neighbors banded together. We call 'em groups."
"Ah..."
"Half-gang now, though. Everyone in X District ties back to one somehow."
Hm... Yeah, it tracked.
No security? Arm up or die.
Chatting, they navigated corridors and stairs to a packed space.
Hundreds buzzed, eyes on the arena.
A ripped guy in a ragged full-face mask brawled a bearded brute.
Not bare fists—they wrapped something on their hands.
"Chains... and glue?"
Oliver muttered, tilting his head.
"Precisely: glue on fists, then shattered glass shards. Why X fights draw crowds. Blood gets bets flowing."
Sure enough, the betting table swarmed with cash.
Some streamed via black magic item "Watcher’s Eye."
"They partner with gangs to broadcast outside X. Decent haul."
"Then why stay here?"
Dinkley blinked at the non sequitur.
"Huh? What?"
"Those groups. With that money, they could set up anywhere."
Oliver was genuinely curious. Poverty or profit keeping them? Fine. But that cash changed things. Enough to leave, start over.
Contradicted the "trapped" narrative.
"Too many mouths to feed. Looks big, but splits thin."
"Still, big winners must've stacked real wealth, right?"
Oliver drew from back-alley experience. Success breeds fat cats.
Dinkley pondered, then answered seriously.
"Exactly why they don't leave. Ironic, huh."
"Doesn't compute."
"Like you saw: operators strut like kings here. Money, power—no reason to go. Flip it: finally got status, why bail? Factory drone? Corner store clerk?"
Oliver had no comeback.
"Life's like that. Leaving means harder grind. Why bother? You sticking to fixer work—same deal, no?"
"Me?"
"Yeah. Made bank as a name fixer, yet you risk it all. Habits die hard, especially comfy ones."
Huh... Intriguing point.
Rang true, sort of.
Though Oliver's fixer gig wasn't just that...
'...Or is it? Can I swear otherwise? Why cling to this path?'
Oliver second-guessed himself, lost in thought. Then bumped someone in the crowd.
"Oops! Sorry."
The man dropped his ticket apologizing; Oliver did the same, bending to grab it.
They glimpsed each other's faces—and both blurted in unison.
"Huh?"
It was the chubby black mage from the gray market—the one who'd made his "Big Mouth" pouch.