Devil Gambit
Chapter 82 : The One Punch Devil

Chapter 82: Chapter 82 : The One Punch Devil

Dirga stepped into the ring.

The air was dry, laced with smoke and the faint scent of metal and blood. The Gemspire Ring’s sixth arena wasn’t packed, but a respectable crowd had gathered—bored gamblers, veterans looking for easy coin, and a few scouts with sharp eyes.

From the stands, Optik was already working the crowd like a well-oiled machine.

"Come on, people, ten-to-one odds on the newcomer! First-timer against a ranker with poison blades! Easy cash!"

He smiled like a devil in a suit—sleek, professional, hungry.

Dirga ignored the noise. His boots touched the tiled surface of the arena floor—runed stone that hummed faintly with Zarion. His black jacket fluttered as he came to a stop at the center. The Crimson Core buzzed faintly beneath his back, calm but alive.

Then his opponent stepped in.

A goblin, nearly as tall as Dirga. Muscular, hunched, with sickly green skin that glistened with sweat. His eyes were sharp, teeth jagged, and in each hand he held a curved dagger—both slick with shimmering purple liquid.

Poison.

"Really?" the goblin scoffed. His voice was nasal and rough. "A newcomer dares challenge me? You must have a death wish, human."

Dirga didn’t respond. He just stared.

Cold. Focused. Quiet.

The arena lights dimmed for a second. Then, in midair, crimson letters appeared in glowing Zarion script:

Are You Ready?

3

2

1

BEGIN

Dirga moved.

He didn’t run. He launched.

A burst of gravity exploded beneath his feet, propelling him like a bullet. The ground cracked where he’d stood. In less than a heartbeat, he closed the distance between them.

The goblin’s eyes widened—he barely had time to raise his daggers.

Dirga’s fist struck his forehead with the force of a collapsing star.

CRACK.

The impact sounded like a thunderclap. The goblin’s skull folded inward. His body was thrown backward like a ragdoll—bounced once, then went still.

Blood. Silence.

Then—

VICTORY

– Challenger: Dirgantara –

The air stood still. Then came the murmur.

"What the hell..."

"Was that one punch?"

"That goblin was ranked five million..."

In the stands, Optik exploded with joy.

"YES! That’s my man! That’s my man! Did you see that?!" he barked, already collecting winnings from shell-shocked bettors.

Dirga stood there, exhaling slowly, fists still clenched.

He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

The arena lights dimmed again. The goblin’s body was carried away by automated servitors.

A medic briefly checked for life signs, then nodded to confirm—dead.

There were no rules against killing here.

Only winning.

Dirga looked toward the stands.

Optik was waving like a lunatic, grinning from ear to ear as if he’d just won the lottery—and in a way, he had.

Dirga turned away. The noise faded behind him.

This was just the beginning.

He needed more fights. More wins. More gold.

...

Back in the lobby of the Gemspire Ring, Dirga stepped up to the reception desk once again.

This time, a different receptionist sat behind the glowing counter—also a fae, but with a very different presence.

She had soft, feline ears twitching with curiosity, a tail swaying lazily behind her, and wore a snug uniform that tried too hard to sell the "cute" image.

Did this place only hire catgirls?

Dirga blinked.

"So, what do you want, nya~?" she purred, tilting her head playfully.

...This one was exactly like those ridiculous catgirl tropes from Earth. It caught him completely off guard.

"I want another fight," Dirga said, recovering. "Another challenge."

The catwoman tapped away on a glowing interface. Her golden eyes sparkled mischievously.

"You got 4,843,248 points from your last match, and your winnings are 1 Devil Gold and 50 Devil Silver, nya~" she announced cheerfully. "Your performance has already flagged attention. So I went ahead and arranged your next match—hope you don’t mind, nya~!"

"Rank?" Dirga asked.

"Your opponent is ranked 1,092,563, nya. He’s a bit special—survived thirty matches and just won his last ten in a row~! You accept?"

Dirga cracked his knuckles.

"Yeah. I accept. Bet all my money on me again."

Her tail flicked. "Roger that~! Bet confirmed. Please wait thirty minutes. Your next match will be in Ring Three, nya."

As Dirga turned to wait, a familiar voice cut in.

"Well, that’s what I expected." Optik appeared beside him, still dressed in his sleek black coat, a devilish grin spreading across his face. "You’re building momentum, and momentum sells."

Dirga nodded. "How much?"

"Three Devil Gold. From the last fight."

Optik flashed a slim wallet card, its crimson screen pulsing faintly with the coin balance.

"I’m betting everything again. Let’s turn this night into a slaughterhouse."

Dirga’s expression hardened.

"Let’s go."

...

Thirty minutes later.

The next match started.

And ended.

Just like the first—

One punch.

No wasted movement.

No skills.

Just precision. Intent. Power.

His second opponent crumpled like scrap metal under the pressure.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Ranks dropped like dominos—900,000... 800,000... 600,000... 400,000.

Dirga was tearing up the ladder.

Each fight ended before most spectators could even blink.

The crowd—small at first—grew.

Whispers turned into chants. Bets soared.

The announcers dubbed him "The One Punch Devil."

Screens flashed his name. His ID.

And behind it all, Dirga kept moving forward. Cold. Quiet. Relentless.

But then—

Just after his latest knockout, the receptionist—cat ears perked, tail flicking anxiously—called him back to the desk.

She wore the same teasing smile, but now her tone had an edge of seriousness.

"You can’t fight again tonight, nya~. Management says you’re too strong. They’re setting up a special match for you tomorrow, versus the Rank 100 fighter."

Dirga blinked once.

"Special match? For me?"

"Yep, nya~. They want to put you on the main stage. Prime slot. High-stakes betting." She gave a little clap. "You’ll get 20% of the total pot—even if you lose."

Dirga nodded. "Fine. I’ll do it."

The catwoman handed him a data slip and payment token.

Dirga checked the numbers.

148 Devil Gold. From match rewards and bet shares.

Optik arrived just moments later, his grin even wider than usual.

"I cleaned up—122 Devil Gold for me," he said, eyes glittering. "Together, we’ve got 300 now."

"200 more to go," Dirga muttered.

Optik stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"I just got a call from the Gemspire Ring’s upper management. You’ve rattled the rankings too hard, too fast. They’re not happy—but they’re also not stupid. You’re a goldmine. They want to feature you."

Dirga crossed his arms, unimpressed.

"I don’t care about their plans. I care about the gold."

Optik chuckled. "Then we just play by their rules. And break the table when we’re done."

Dirga didn’t smile. _{fr\(e)ew(e)b.(n)o (v)(e)l.com}

Tomorrow, he’d fight someone in the top 100.

Tomorrow, he’d get even closer to Sasa.