“WAAAAAAAHHHH!”

“KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”

“Win today! I placed a huge bet!”

“Hahahaha! You fools! You’ve got it all wrong! The winner today is…”

“Shut up! Move aside! My money! Take my money! I’m betting on Number 3! Number 3!”

The deafening roar of the crowd and the thunderous commotion swirled through the air, filthy and sticky like stagnant puddles in the rainy season.

The largest gladiator arena in the empire.

Since slavery was illegal in the empire, gladiators occupied a position similar to that of professional athletes.

The key difference, of course, was that every match was a battle for survival. But ultimately, it was still about honing one’s skills and competing in front of an audience to determine the best.

There were no restrictions on status, gender, age, or origin when participating as a gladiator. Even criminals could compete under harsher conditions to reduce their sentences.

And, as was almost mandatory, gambling on matches and specific fighters’ victories or defeats was a given—practically no one left the arena without placing a bet.

After all, many spectators covered their entrance fees with the money they won from betting.

Additionally, a portion of the collected wagers was distributed as a commission to the arena and the gladiators who had become the subject of bets.

“Ha… My favorite fighter, Number 4, finally retired. Who should I bet on now?”

“Number 4? That changed more than two months ago. And he didn’t even die—he retired. That’s the best-case scenario.”

“Well, that’s true. He must’ve made a fortune before leaving, so he’s probably living well somewhere. Sigh. How’s the new Number 4?”

As the man clutched his coin pouch and groaned in indecision, the truth was that some gladiators did manage to accumulate wealth unimaginable to commoners and retire within a short period.

Of course, far more of them died before reaching that point.

“Oh? Did it start already?”

“Don’t rush. The early matches are just warm-ups—only nobodies. There’s still time before the real fights begin.”

A few steps away from the chaotic waves of people pushing and shoving in front of the ever-changing betting board, a single figure stood, separated from the crowd as if by an invisible wall.

Beyond a red cordon, Raylin stood alone, placing no bets, merely confirming the nameplate for Number 12 before heading toward a reserved spectator seat.

Though not a noble-exclusive section, entry required an exorbitant sum.

As she moved forward, the arena descended into chaos.

Blood spurted out when the contestant with number 5 tore into number 17’s side with an axe, and the cheers grew even louder.

“Ahhh! That attack landed! It landed! Will he be able to overcome this injury and stand again?”

Rather than lively, the commentator’s voice was almost frivolous as it echoed against the walls, but it didn’t reach her ears.

Raylin, her hood pulled deep over her face, walked straight ahead before briefly turning her gaze.

One side of the arena—the massive gate through which contestants entered before their matches, though it was closed now due to the ongoing fight.

Beyond that massive door, stained so thoroughly with blood or some other filth that its original color was unrecognizable, was where that man would be.

Kertan.

A man who had never properly trained or studied combat but still ranked among the top five strongest fighters in the empire.

And the sub-male lead whom Catherine had saved.

A setup that felt all too familiar.

A desperate man and the woman who rescues him.

Among the keywords of Re.Vil.Bre, the one responsible for the ‘#reverse harem’ element—aside from Theron, who ultimately ends up with Catherine—comprised three men.

Kertan, Arian, and Roir.

If her goal was to dismantle the original story, then naturally, anything meant to belong to the protagonist had to be stolen or destroyed.

Among the many who would become Catherine’s loyal subordinates, those three had to be eliminated.

She couldn’t directly interfere with Theron, but the other three were fair game.

The door burst open before she could place her hand on the doorknob.

“Raylin!”

Before she knew it, she was pulled into a tight embrace, her nose pressed against a firm chest. The hug was so tight that she had to take a sharp breath to steady herself.

“Where have you been? I was about to go looking for you.”

“You’re squeezing too hard, Roir. It hurts, and I can’t breathe.”

“Ah! Sorry! Are you hurt? Should I call a doctor?”

He immediately let go, backing away in a panic.

“Did you get injured somewhere? I told you I’d go with you—this place is dangerous. Even if you brought a gun, it’s still risky.”

As he fussed over her, brows furrowed in concern, Raylin simply pushed him aside and answered,

“It’s fine. It’s not that bad. More importantly, let’s sit now.”

“Alright. Here, I got your favorite tea.”

The man who treated her like a delicate sugar figurine was Roir Greuga.

Among the collateral branches of the Greuga family, he was considered an exceptional talent, both in ability and character, and the duke had adopted him to become the next head of the Greuga Duchy.

And he had an extreme case of sister complex.

Naturally, it was all part of the novel’s plot—a device for Catherine.

Roir, who loved Raylin dearly as his sister, was horrified when he found out that her best friend was the infamous scoundrel of Sillion. He tried to separate them, only to eventually fall for Catherine’s charm and become one of the sub-male leads caught in her web.

Raylin, of course, would wholeheartedly support their relationship.

“I’d love for you to become my family.”

He had said something like that.

She didn’t remember the exact line from Re.Vil.Bre, but she was sure it carried a similar meaning.

At the time, the atmosphere had made it impossible not to say such words.

With Catherine, who had escaped from an abusive family, radiating ‘loneliness’ and ‘sorrow’ while a conversation about whether Roir liked her or not was taking place—who wouldn’t have said something similar?

“Aren’t you hungry? Try this Mont Blanc. I picked one that suits your taste.”

Raylin, watching him sit close beside her, tail-wagging like an oversized puppy, obediently took a bite before asking,

“You remember what I told you about number 12, right?”

“Of course. Who do you think I am? Remember you came here with me so we could get number 12 out?”

He deliberately emphasized me, his green eyes brimming with anticipation, but Raylin mercilessly ignored him.

“Bring him here. Before today’s match.”

“Here? Before the match? Why would—”

The moment the question, why? began to leave his lips, Raylin flashed a bright, radiant smile.

“If you do, I’ll be so delighted.”

Faced with the rare sight of his usually evasive little sister beaming at him like that, Roir didn’t hesitate.

“Leave it to me!”

Like an eager puppy thrilled at the prospect of a walk, he dashed out of the room.

He seemed like someone who didn’t think much, but his administrative skills and political acumen were unmatched.

Failure wasn’t in his vocabulary.

As the golden hair—slightly darker than her own—vanished from sight, Raylin chuckled.

“He really is cute.”

Yes. There was no way she was going to let that adorable brother of hers get tangled up with a lunatic suffering from delusional attachment disorder.

In the original story, he got involved because she and Catherine became best friends, but in this life, where they would be mortal enemies, she would ensure he never got entangled with her.

Even without Raylin acting as the link, the two could still meet…

“?”

Before she could even finish her thought, Raylin’s eyes widened in shock, and she froze.

A figure in a pitch-black robe with a hood pulled deep over their head stood before her.

Raylin, faced with someone who had appeared without a sound or even the slightest trace of presence, opened her mouth to speak—then promptly shut it.

Her heart pounded wildly, like a runaway horse, but she felt no sense of danger.

It wasn’t because she trusted the arena’s security, which even high-ranking nobles, who valued their lives above all else, occasionally relied on. Instead, she knew only a select few could bypass all those measures and appear like this.

Moreover, the word floating beside the figure, whose face was almost entirely hidden by the hood, wasn’t threatening.

A faint “Surprise.”

Someone who had come to harm her wouldn’t display such an emotion, would they?

Raylin stood up, straightened her skirt, and offered a proper greeting.

“I greet Your Highness, the Crown Prince.”

“I noticed Greuga’s young master and thought there might be a chance… And here you are.”

“Oh, you ran into my brother—no, that wouldn’t make sense.”

“As you can see, I’m on a covert mission. I wasn’t aware you had such interests.”

He tilted his head slightly as if puzzled.

“I don’t. I’m only here today because I’m looking for someone.”

While the world accommodated all kinds of preferences, she didn’t want to be mistaken for someone who willingly joined the blood-drenched madness of the arena. She was quick to deny any association.

“Looking for someone? Are you planning to sponsor a fighter? That would be meaningless unless you actually watch the matches.”

“As I said, I have no interest in this place. I’m not here to sponsor anyone but to retire someone.”

Aiger’s gaze softened slightly as he watched her respond matter-of-factly, but Raylin couldn’t see it, as his face remained hidden beneath the hood.

Moreover, his emotions weren’t intense enough to materialize into words like amusement or curiosity, so Raylin felt like she was talking to a wall of ice.

“Who are you trying to take away?”

Raylin blinked for a moment, then answered clearly.

“Number 12.”