As they parted ways, Yaruo informed her that two formidable figures occupied the red booth tonight, seated in the second-floor viewing gallery. One was likely military brass.
Yaruo warned her absolutely not to speak out of turn, only to follow orders. Daian nodded, assuring her not to worry.
Past the entrance and around a single corner, the roar of the crowd hit her instantly, a wall of sound filled with frenzied shouts.
Daian surveyed the scene. On the central fighting pit floor, two shirtless men, faces bloodied, grappled violently. A referee tried to separate them. Below the ring, hundreds roared and cheered, bellowing like beasts.
The sight was genuinely unpleasant.
Daian recoiled, pulling her gaze away. It swept across the tiered second-floor viewing gallery encircling the underground arena. Wreathed in smoke, it held many faces that looked distinctly expensive.
In the deepest red booth, two black-suited bodyguards stood impassively behind, hands clasped. Before them sat two deep burgundy leather cigar chairs, side by side, separated by a low table.
An older man in striped suspenders and trousers puffed comfortably on a cigar, legs crossed.
Beside him, a younger man exhaled a plume of smoke. His face was half-obscured by the shifting crimson velvet drapes. Daian could only make out the clean, defiant line of his jaw, lifted slightly as if in amusement.
Daian straightened her attire, swaying with deliberate grace as she approached them, holding her tray aloft with one hand, embodying the perfect server's deference.
As she neared the older man, a bodyguard stepped forward to ask why the server had changed. Daian murmured that the previous one felt unwell, then offered him a dazzling smile. The man retreated without another word.
"Sir, your whisky."
Daian bent to lift the glass and ice bucket from her tray, placing them on the table between the two men. The older man and Angwei were laughing, paying her no heed.
She positioned herself slightly back, awaiting orders. Her eyes involuntarily drifted towards Angwei on her right. He was sipping his drink with an air of supreme ease.
Yet it seemed his interest lay neither in the alcohol nor the fight, but in the man beside him. His hawk-like eyes held a mocking glint as he subtly observed the older man's reactions.
The older man was utterly absorbed in the brutal contest below, his emotions rising and falling with the action. Clearly, he had money riding on it.
Sister Hua said underground fights typically served three purposes.
One: delivering money. Two: money laundering. Three: pure, savage entertainment – finding regulated boxing too tame, preferring fights with no rules, fights to the death, signed off with waivers to absolve responsibility. Extremely bloody.
Judging by the situation, tonight was likely the first.
Since it involved military personnel, it was almost certainly about delivering funds – a bribe. The older man would be encouraged to bet on a fighter; whichever he chose would win. That explained the cynical amusement in Angwei's eyes, like he was watching a well-staged farce.
Angwei drained his glass, then glanced at his watch. Daian keenly caught the almost imperceptible signal he sent towards several burly men on the first floor. Below, they seemed to receive the command. On the stage, the final round commenced.
Within five brutal minutes, the larger fighter, face a mask of blood, was carried out unconscious.
Amidst the deafening roar of the crowd, the victor – a wiry, bruised man – spat out his black mouthguard and raised his fists triumphantly, basking in the victory.
Angwei stood, a cigarette dangling from his lips. With a sharp, single-handed motion, he undid the solitary button of his suit jacket, stretching it back before raising both hands in applause.
Beside him, the older man also rose, offering Angwei a polite, slightly deferential smile. "My apologies, Young Master Chan. I won."
Angwei shrugged, eyes narrowing slightly. He took the cigarette from his mouth and shook the offered hand, his expression one of smooth agreement, his voice betraying no disappointment.
"Congratulations, General Biyang."
As the words left his lips, four women carried a wooden table onto the bloodied stage below.
A black cloth covered it. Amidst the surging waves of noise, the victorious fighter pulled back the cloth, revealing stacks upon stacks of cash, meticulously arranged, gleaming blindingly under the lights.
He accepted a burlap sack handed up from below. To the rhythmic counting chants of the crowd, he began stuffing bundle after bundle of cash into the sack.
The action was repeated over a hundred times. A staggering, soul-shaking display of opulence.
Angwei and the General watched the spectacle below and exchanged a knowing smile – the unspoken transaction complete.
Shortly after, a manager approached and respectfully ushered the General away, mentioning light refreshments prepared in his honour in the North Wing's fourth-floor lounge. The General followed without a word, though not before his gaze lingered appreciatively on Daian's retreating figure.
The booth now held only Angwei and his bodyguards. The first floor had emptied, yet he remained, contemplative eyes fixed on the deserted pit below.
As Daian pondered how to capture his attention, the manager returned and gestured sharply for her to leave. Daian cast one last look at Angwei's back but had no choice.
She had taken only two steps when a flustered-looking underling brushed past her, striding urgently to whisper in Angwei's ear. At the corner, Daian heard Angwei's low, resonant chuckle in response to whatever was said, though the words themselves were lost.
Back in the main hall, Daian spotted Yaruo serving drinks in the distance.
Yaruo's décolletage was stuffed with banknotes – tips from appreciative guests. She caught Daian's eye and gave a relieved smile. Daian returned a subtle, understanding nod.
For the rest of her shift, Daian was distracted. She didn't know if Angwei had left. If he had, tonight's opportunity was lost.
Soon after, Manager Asu found her.
Remarkably, despite the throngs, his claimed face blindness seemed selective. He navigated the crowds unerringly to her side.
"Miss Daian," Asu began, his expression strained, "I know you were reluctant about host, but this is urgent. An exceptionally important guest upstairs has specifically requested you tonight. We explained you're just a server, but this guest... their status is unimaginably high. If you refuse, I fear..."
Asu looked genuinely troubled, not feigning it. He was clearly annoyed too – such a powerful figure taking an interest in a first-day server forced his hand.
Daian looked puzzled, scanning the room. Some creep had singled her out. "Manager," she stated flatly, "I don't host."
She turned to leave. The oppressive air had become unbearable, and she had gained nothing tonight. She was ready to go home.
Before she could take another step, two imposing black-suited bodyguards blocked her path, solid as a fortress wall. Behind her, Manager Asu's voice had lost its previous softness, turning hard.
"Miss Daian," he said, the threat implicit, "I suggest you don't misunderstand the situation. This is someone neither you nor I can afford to offend. Cross him, and you might just lose more than your job."