SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS - Chapter 1031 - 1031: The Rise of the Golden Rat
Inside a large temporary pavilion on the lower terraces of the Heavenly Phoenix Range, Kent sat with his core team of followers. Amelia leaned over a wooden table examining the latest map of the fighting arenas, while Sophia calmly brewed tea beside her. Lily and the two sword brothers sharpened their weapons silently.
The flap of the pavilion lifted with a gust of wind, revealing Fatty Ben striding in, face shining with excitement, his hands stuffed with scrolls and paper tokens.
Kent raised a brow. “You’ve got that smile, Ben. Either you found trouble or struck gold.”
Fatty let out a laugh, then dropped the scrolls on the table with a dramatic thud. “Brother! You won’t believe the names I’ve dug up. The tournament isn’t a gathering—it’s a storm of monsters.”
“Tell me,” Kent said, gesturing to a chair.
Fatty sat down and opened the first scroll. “Alright, so top five names to watch. The hottest-bet is on Qian Luo, direct disciple of the Dragonhorn Temple. Peak Earth Magus. They say he singlehandedly destroyed a mid-tier beast horde during the last sect expedition.
Then there’s Mu Yanfei, daughter of the Azure Rain Pavilion’s grand elder. She’s like a walking ice storm—cultivates the Frozen Lotus Scripture.”
Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “A woman cultivator that high-ranked? Impressive.”
Fatty continued. “Then you have Huang Dolo of the Titan Bone Sect—pure brute force. Rumor says his bloodline is that of a mutant barbarian giant. Followed by Feng Yuxin, a charming rogue from the Mirage Light Sect. Trickster, illusionist, and deadly with her triple blades. And lastly, Yuan Kang, the Sword Burial Valley’s twin-blade prodigy.”
Kent nodded thoughtfully. “A good crop. And the rewards?”
Fatty grinned. “This is where things get spicy. Winner receives the Heavenly Monarch Title for the next fifty years, granted by the Seven Nation Syndicate. It’s not just a title. It means authority to command regional war forces, tax exemptions, and an invitation to many big gatnerings.”
Amelia paused. “And the marriage contract?”
Ben chuckled. “Yes! The buzz is wild. The winner will be married to a noble lady selected by the Syndicate—Lady Shaya, daughter of the ruling Matriarch of the Divine Snow Clan. Apparently, she’s a top-tier beauty and carries a unique bloodline.”
Sophia smirked. “Ah, so the tournament is half-battle, half-betrothal ceremony.”
Kent said nothing. He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.
After a moment, Ben leaned forward. “And brother, I’ve set everything for the gambling house.”
Kent blinked. “That fast?”
Fatty puffed his chest. “Speed is art when gold is in sight. I reached the Syndicate Administration Hall, filled the forms, and you’ll love this—the name: Golden Rat Gambling House!”
Lily burst into laughter. “Like the same old one.”
Ben continued, “They asked for a deposit. Fifty thousand for the gambling rights. Another five thousand for the location I picked—right beside the Third Fighting Ring, where the final eight matches happen. Prime spot! Even the Syndicate agents raised their brows.”
Kent nodded and waved his hand. A small black ring flashed, and a glowing pouch materialized on the table with a pulse of mana. “Sixty thousand. All yours.”
Ben took the pouch with reverence. “This smells like pure wealth…”
Amelia raised a brow. “How did you convince them to let a new house operate?”
Ben gave a smug look. “Easy. I spun the tale of a mysterious backer, a dark horse entering the tournament. Said we believe this man will shake the heavens. When they asked who, I just smiled and pointed vaguely at the sun. The beauty of anonymity!”
With that Ben left towards Syndicate house to set up his gambling den.
—
Next day morning… One day left for the Tournament to start…
As the sun climbed above the Seven Nation Syndicate Hall, painting the tournament grounds in gold and heatwaves, a strange buzz rippled across the eastern market district.
It wasn’t about some prodigy landing from a sky ship, or a sect’s secret weapon arriving cloaked in mystery.
No.
“The Golden Rat Gambling House?” a middle-aged merchant muttered, eyebrows raised as he sipped barley tea under a cloth shade. “What sort of idiot names a gambling stall after a rodent?”
“Idiot or genius,” his companion replied, eyes fixed on the chalkboard sign in the distance, “they’re offering odds of 1:10 on some unknown fellow named Kent King.”
Around them, similar murmurs filled the air.
“1:10?”
“No one dares go that high!”
“Is he mad?”
“It’s a scam, surely. No one survives these first-round brawls without a name to back them.”
“Must be a fake entry.”
Down the bustling lane leading to the Third Fighting Ring, dozens of people craned their necks toward the glittering red-and-gold tent pitched in the busiest corner. Bold letters danced magically on its canvas:
“Golden Rat Gambling House – Bite the Gold, Taste the Glory!”
A small golden rat statue perched on the roof, wagging its tail magically, squeaking with laughter every few minutes. Below it, the odds board glowed with mana script:
Golden Rat Special: Kent King – 1:10 for Round 1 Victory!
The onlookers gawked.
“Isn’t 1:10 too high? That means if I bet 100 mana stones, I get a thousand if he wins?”
“Yeah. But he won’t. That’s why it’s high.”
“Still… what if… just what if he’s the hidden disciple of some ancient power?”
Someone nearby snorted. “More like the hidden chef of a roadside inn.”
Then, suddenly, the crowd parted. Laughter erupted.
Fatty Ben had arrived.
Dressed in a shimmering golden robe embroidered with a hundred tiny rats playing dice, Ben walked as if he owned the capital. He wore golden-rimmed spectacles for no reason and held a long peacock-feather fan, which he waved dramatically as he passed.
Behind him were five young ladies dressed in glimmering rat-themed dresses, each holding a magical board shouting slogans in rhythm:
“Golden Rat, Big Fat Payout!”
“Bet with Cheese, Win with Ease!”
“Trust the Rat – Not the Brat!”
“1:10? Oh HEAVENS! YES AGAIN!”
People stared. Some cheered. Others laughed.
“What the hell is this?!” an old cultivator sputtered, nearly choking on his dumpling.
Ben stopped right in front of the betting stall. “Ladies and gentlemen! Heroes, villains, gamblers and cowards! Today, your fortunes change!”
He struck a pose.
“One unknown man, one mysterious contender, stands before fate! His name? Kent King! His power? Untested! His odds? UNBELIEVABLE!”
He twirled. “1:10 odds!”
A kid raised his hand. “Is that true?”
Ben knelt beside him with a grin. “Child, do you doubt destiny?”
The boy nodded. “Yes.”
Ben nodded solemnly. “Smart boy. Never bet all your lunch money. But if you do, bet with the Golden Rat.”
Laughter again.
As the lines at other betting stalls grew sluggish and cautious with safe 1:2 and 1:3 odds, the Golden Rat stall swelled with curious risk-takers.
“You know,” one merchant whispered, slipping five mana crystals toward the counter, “I like crazy odds. Better than betting on those arrogant sect boys.”
In less than an hour, over twnety thousand mana crystals had been collected in bets against Kent.
Ben, now seated atop a golden rat plush throne, sipped mango juice and winked at passing ladies.
“Fair maidens! The Golden Rat welcomes your charm and cheer! For every hundred you bet, the rat grants a wink of luck!”
A teenage girl scoffed, “Who writes your slogans?”
Ben pointed at his chest. “The muse of money!”
Behind him, a team of scribes tallied the bets with frantic hands. One of the managers whispered, “Sir, we’re… actually doing good. Better than predicted. People are betting madly!”
Ben smirked. “Of course. Everyone loves a fool’s chance. Especially when it turns into a golden miracle.”
Meanwhile, at other stalls—
“Qian Luo at 1:2. Any takers?”
“Bah, boring. He always wins.”
“Mu Yanfei, the Ice Goddess! Odds 1:3!”
“Too safe! No thrill!”
The Golden Rat had successfully drawn away the uncertain, the dreamers, the drunks, and the dangerously hopeful. A crowd now gathered around the 3rd Arena’s eastern gate—partly to see the new betting tent, and partly to see just who this Kent King really was.
