In a world drowning in materialism, human conflicts are the purest.

Next up: women tugging each other's hair, men comparing... well, you know.

Wherever people gather, competition flares—escalating until masks shatter.

They're all "bros" and "sis" when playing, but turn vicious enough to slaughter your family and gut you.

Compared to society's deceit, the arena's raw clashes feel more direct, more pure.

Lenna sipped her slushie—bought for ten copper coins—watching the arena's undefeated champion. Her eyes showed not a ripple.

She knew exactly who owned this place. Without Imperial approval, the arena couldn't exist under the Empire's nose.

Exactly. The Fran Black Market lived by the Empress's will alone.

The Empire needed a lawless zone, free from morals, to feed nobles' extravagant cravings.

Got cash burning a hole? Hit the black market. Enter in silk robes, leave bare-assed.

Tired of your aging wife? Pick slaves there. Exotic races, black stockings, fishnets—something to drain you dry.

In short, the Fran Black Market was Imperial-run. When the arena manager learned Lenna had arrived, he snapped to attention, ordering her win at all costs.

"But the odds are one-to-a-thousand! How can we cover that...?"

Rabbit Man's voice trembled. Kneeling, he clutched his head, stammering, "If I'd known the Falmore Family's young miss was here, I'd never have approached her. That jinx! Why here? We're doomed! This'll cost a fortune!"

"Shut up! It's not over yet!!"

The shadowed man stepped forward. Jonathan Truff grabbed Rabbit Man by the collar. His Fourth Rank Butcher skills let him crush heads like watermelons.

He roared, thick and violent, "So what if she wins! Her Imperial Highness will compensate us!"

News of Lenna's Sixth Rank promotion had spread, reaching the Empire's highest tiers.

Orders came down: never offend this Sixth Rank Necromancer. Offer olive branches; the Empire would reward generously.

The command put the new arena manager in a bind.

As they say: bosses talk, minions run till their legs break.

Funds were tight. The arena's assets were frozen. He'd have to dip into savings to dodge disaster.

The silver lining? His boss was the Imperial Princess herself—the Empire's Flower. Reporting honestly might get losses reimbursed.

"How much did she bet...?"

Jonathan steadied himself, sighing, "If it's small, we can handle it..."

Rabbit Man stood shakily, holding up five fingers.

"Fifty?" Jonathan asked.

Rabbit Man shook his head, raising his other hand—five fingers spread.

"A hundred?"

"......"

"Don't tell me it's a thousand gold coins."

Jonathan's eyes bulged wide, voice cracking.

A thousand coins times a thousand? A million!

Intentional! Definitely intentional!

Fury surged, but Jonathan kept thinking.

This visitor meant trouble.

She had an agenda. How to stop her from winning everything without offending her...

"Boss..."

"What?! Can't you see I'm still mad?!"

"Precisely... one thousand five hundred eighty-seven... I gave her a hundred-denomination gold voucher... thought she was a newbie, a big fish..." Rabbit Man squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for impact.

Damn...

Jonathan had just taken over when this hot potato landed. He couldn't afford to anger either side. The blame would crush him. This was the end.

Rabbit Man had already picked his next-life reincarnation.

"Thieves! That bloody woman came to clean us out!!"

The furious 1.9-meter giant slashed his blade—shattering the floor beneath Rabbit Man.

Boom! The VIP section on the second floor collapsed, dust billowing.

Jonathan leaped down. His round, fierce eyes scanned the haze, locking onto the gray figure. He strode over, thick finger jabbing, "You...!"

"Me?" Lenna tilted her head.

"You! You!"

After sputtering, Jonathan deflated like a punctured balloon. His scowl melted into a stiff, fawning grin. "You... you... eaten yet? Hahaha! Rabbit! Where's the fruit platter, drinks, tea? A guest arrives, and you don't announce her? What hospitality!"

Endure! A true man bends to survive!

He'd dump this on the Imperial Princess. Sacrificing for the realm—she'd understand.

"Miss Lenna, please."

Jonathan's shift from manager to lackey stunned even Lenna. She revised her opinion slightly.

He was someone. But only that.

"Make way! Rabbit! Miss Lenna's fruit platter—where is it?!"

He shoved aside gamblers, bellowing Lenna's name like a heralding god.

Smart move. Jonathan, a bottom-feeder who clawed his way up, knew how to read the wind.

"I didn't know Miss Lenna would grace us. This isn't just casual fun, is it?"

He probed carefully, name-dropping Imperial Princess Diana. "I heard Her Highness enrolls soon—and you'll be classmates..."

"So what?"

Lenna shot him a sidelong glance.

The burly giant froze. Cold sweat slicked his brow. He nearly forgot to breathe.

Her pressure crushed him—like an ant beneath a mountain, bracing against a tidal wave. He curled inward, minimizing resistance.

"Since you're Her Highness's classmate, you're my friend too. Today's tab's on me. How about we just..."

Jonathan rubbed his rough hands together, buzzing like a fat green fly.

"Mr. Jonathan." Lenna cut in, calm as still water. "I have a bad habit: I crave thrills. Like your arena... I see serious investment potential. Your thoughts?"

"So Miss Lenna means...?"

Jonathan faltered.

What? Lenna investing? The Falmore heiress defying the Imperial family? Didn't she know Princess Diana owned this arena? Poaching like this—was she always this bold? ...Actually, yes. Lenna's name echoed empire-wide. Even ex-mercenary Jonathan knew this man-eating bulldozer with a taste for women. Too reckless. He couldn't agree—no authority. Refuse gently. He opened his mouth.

Lenna stared fixedly at the arena floor. "The game begins, Jonathan. Who wins this round?"