NRAL | Chapter 83

~Chapter 83~

A Dogfight

“Oh, that’s what this was about? And here I was, worrying for nothing…”

“Yes. So don’t worry, Damian. Just enjoy yourself. Now that your probation’s over, you should go back to living your life. I won’t tell Father where you’ve been going. And if you need an excuse, feel free to use my name.”

“R-Really? You’d do that for me?”

The foolish Damian was easily swayed, his mouth stretching into a wide grin. He’d been itching to go back to the pleasure districts for days now.

“Of course. Didn’t I tell you? I’m on your side.”

What did “your side” or “my side” even mean in a world where alliances shifted with circumstances?

Nora pushed him out of the room with a cold smile.

“Actually, why not go out tonight? I heard Father has a headache and is going to bed early. You should enjoy yourself to the fullest.”

Damian gave a stupid little sound and nodded eagerly.

Yes, if he couldn’t spend time with Nora tonight, maybe he should follow her advice and hit up Salisbury Street. It had been a while since he had enjoyed gambling, and his built-up desires could be satisfied as well.

And so, with Nora seeing him off, Damian slipped out of the Astria estate without his father’s knowledge.

***

“Damian! It’s been ages!”

“My goodness, young master! We were starting to think you were dead!”

Damian’s old friends welcomed him warmly as he entered the bar at Salisbury for the first time in a long while.

“The family’s been keeping me busy. You know how it is. Hahaha.”

He laughed as if he hadn’t just finished a month of house arrest.

His personal knight, Dante Miller, watched with quiet scorn. To Dante, Damian was just a clueless brat who only acted like a “man” when he was surrounded by alcohol and prostitutes.

The bar quickly filled with cheers and laughter as the regulars welcomed him back. Heavily made-up women wrapped themselves around him, giggling flirtatiously. Any lingering anxiety in Damian’s heart melted away, and even his father’s orders were forgotten within thirty minutes.

Damien brushed off all his concerns, clinked glasses with his friends, and freely touched the soft skin of the pretty woman beside him, and indulged in every desire without hesitation.

About an hour passed.

Having released his pent-up frustrations, Damian began to crave the familiar sights of the gambling hall. He was drunk, the women were tipsy—it was time for the real games to begin.

“Hey there, handsome noble!”

Just as he left the bar and was heading for his favorite gambling den, a smooth voice stopped him.

“Do you know where the most popular gambling table in this district is?”

A young man he didn’t recognize suddenly appeared and addressed Damian. As the man stepped forward, Dante swiftly blocked his path like a proper knight.

“You there! Step back!”

“Whoa, easy now!”

The young man—Milo—leapt back in exaggerated surprise as Dante drew his sword. His startled cry drew attention from the nearby crowd.

“Who the hell draws a sword in Salisbury?!”

“Bringing a knight around here? What a spoiled little noble.”

“Wait, isn’t that Milo? Milo’s one of the nicest guys in the whole district. Why the hell are they treating him like a criminal?”

Whispers quickly spread. Even the women who had been clinging to Damian moments ago pulled back with disapproving looks.

That was the power of Milo’s network—his connections ran deep through every inch of Salisbury.

“You idiot! Put that sword away right now!”

The mockery and side-eyes turned Damian’s face beet red. The thought that the women might see him as a coward only enraged him further.

“But my lord, as your knight, I must—”

“I said, drop it! What do you think I am, some delicate girl?! Damn it, this is why I hate bringing knights around!”

As Damian raged, Dante reluctantly sheathed his sword and stepped back, looking awkward.

Only then did the young man with the easygoing smile—Milo—come back into focus.

“So, what were you saying again?”

Damian eyed him with hatred. If not for the onlookers, he would’ve arrested this man for insulting a noble on the spot.

Milo, seemingly unaware of the tension, gave a smooth grin and began flattering him.

“Wow… I’ve never seen someone command their knight like that! You’re so manly, my lord! Truly impressive!”

“Hmph, no big deal.”

“Well now, this is perfect. The gambling table I was talking about will suit someone like you. Unlike those places where they just play cards like a bunch of girls, this one’s bold, hot-blooded, and the real deal for real men. Want to take a look, even just for fun?”

The salesman-like pitch tickled Damian’s ego. A place for real men? That sounded exactly like something meant for him.

“Alright. Lead the way.”

“My lord, I must urge you to reconsider. It could be dangerous—”

“Sir Dante Miller. Interrupt me one more time, and I’ll make sure you lose the right to be called ‘Sir’ ever again.”

Damian, who had no authority to strip knighthoods, threatened as if he were emperor himself. Dante clenched his jaw, suppressing the urge to throw this brat to the ground.

Milo smiled cheerfully and led Damian down a shadowy alley.

The deeper they went, the more the atmosphere grew chilling. Damian began to feel nervous, but he couldn’t show it—not after his big talk. Dante followed silently, regardless of how shady the alley seemed.

“Here we are!”

Just as Damian’s patience was about to run out, Milo pointed at a small building. He wasn’t lying—noise and voices leaked out from within, suggesting a packed crowd.

Relieved by the sound of people, Damian straightened up and marched toward the entrance as if he’d never been scared.

The moment he opened the worn door, heat rushed past his nose, followed by a barrage of sounds—laughter, shouting, and glasses smashing.

The chaos wasn’t unpleasant. Damian raised a brow and looked around with interest.

Then something in the center of the room seized his attention.

In the center of the room was a large round area surrounded by a thick fence, with a crowd cheering wildly. In the middle of the ring, two dogs were viciously fighting, biting each other’s necks.

A dogfight.

“Seriously? This ‘real man’s game’ is just a damn dogfight?”

Damian scoffed, unimpressed.

Dogfighting was old news. There had been a time when he enjoyed watching the monsters tear into each other, but the thrill had worn off. Overstimulation dulls even the sharpest sensation.

Besides, he wasn’t just a viewer—he’d killed more than ten dogs himself. Something like this couldn’t even stir his curiosity anymore.

“Just a dogfight? You’d change your tune if you knew how much money is riding on that round. Even lesser nobles go all in here.”

That caught his interest again.

“How much are we talking?”

“Well, let me tell you…”

Milo leaned in and whispered the figure into his ear.

Damian’s dull eyes lit up.

A single round of bets that large?

Even as a seasoned gambler, he found the amount shocking. No wonder even nobles treated this place like war.

“…That is interesting. Alright, I’m in. Let’s see… hmm, that one looks good. The tough one with the big mouth.”

He examined the waiting dogs one by one and picked a sturdy-looking one. From experience, he knew that breed lasted the longest in the fight.

Just as he was about to place his bet, he caught a glimpse of a familiar, irritating face on the other side of the pit.

Black hair. Slimy smirk. Awkward mustache.

Baron Ronnie Griffiths.

Griffiths narrowed his eyes, clearly recognizing Damian. He stood with his usual circle—Viscount Rupert Macdonald among them—but Arlo, their usual centerpiece, was absent.

Their eyes met. Damian flinched but straightened his back with forced dignity.

He didn’t hold a formal title yet, but he was destined to become the next Duke of Astria. They should be the ones greeting him.

But Griffiths simply turned away, muttering to his friends as they burst into laughter.

‘They’re definitely talking about me!’

Fury and humiliation rose in Damian’s chest.

And he wasn’t wrong. Griffiths and his cronies were, in fact, laughing at him.

“Did you see that? Looks like the Astria brat’s probation finally ended.”

“Pfft! And he brought his knight here? What a joke.”

“This place is doomed if even kids like that are hanging around. For all we know, his dad might storm in any second to scold everyone.”

“Ahahahaha! Can you imagine?!”

Their laughter was loud enough to echo across the floor.

Damian’s face turned bright red with humiliation.

How dare they…!

These weren’t even powerful nobles—just Arlo’s lackeys, puffed up with borrowed pride.

He was furious but didn’t show it. His anger boiled as he clenched his fists.

Milo, sensing the right moment, threw more fuel on the fire.

“They’re definitely talking about you, right? Looks like they’re mocking you, sir. Are any of them even above you in rank?”

The words, though calm, pushed Damien over the edge.

Enraged by the idea that even low-ranking brats dared mock him, Damian shot to his feet.

He wanted everyone to know who was really in charge around here.

“Hey, Baron Griffiths! Why don’t you stop snickering like a rat and come say it to my face?”

Normally, Damian would never confront a group of men like this, but alcohol made him bold—and erased any concern for consequences.

“However, if you had any guts, you wouldn’t be spending your days wiping my brother-in-law’s ass.”

The gambling den fell instantly silent.

All eyes turned to him. The silence rang in his ears. For a brief moment, Damian regretted speaking up—but it was too late.

“Lord Astria. What did you just say?”