The adrenaline from the moment with Lyra was still humming in Kael’s veins, a manic, buzzing energy that made the air feel electric. He was laughing—real, breathless laughter that earned him more than a few wary glances from the passing pit crews. But as the roar of the crowd intensified, his "racing brain" took over. The laughter died down into a sharp, predatory focus.

  Kael leaned over the railing, his eyes tracking the two lead beasts.

  "Torque for the mud mounds, the Ravok TalonfowlStalker

  He watched the Stalker's approach angle. It was too shallow.

  "If the Stalker doesn't hit that with sufficient entry speed, the drag will stall the engine—the beast's legs—and it'll lose three seconds on the climb."

  It happened exactly as he predicted. The Stalker hit the water, the resistance of the deep mud-pit acting like a massive brake on its momentum. Its muscles bunched, straining against the sudden increase in viscosity drag

  Kael needed a better angle to see the final stretch. He bolted, weaving through the lower stands and lunging up a set of stone stairs into a plush, carpeted viewing box. He didn't notice the silk hangings or the shocked faces of the Nobles holding their betting Slates.

  A man in a gold-trimmed tunic was just about to hand over a Golden Mark

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  "Don't do it!" Kael barked, lunging forward. He looked like a madman—soot on his face, eyes wide with the raw data of the race. "Don't bet on the grey one. The traction is gone! Place it on... on..."

  He looked at the Talonfowl. The bird-like beast was a mass of feathers and powerful, spring-loaded thighs. His brain, still translating Aurelion’s biology into Earth’s categories, failed to find the formal name.

  "Bet on the Chicken!"

  The box went deathly quiet. A Noblewoman lowered her opera glass, staring at Kael’s grease-stained tunic with pure disdain. A "chicken"? The Ravok Talonfowl was a descendant of the prehistoric terror-birds, a symbol of predatory grace. Calling it a was like calling a Formula 1 car a lawnmower.

  "A 'chicken'?" the Nobleman sneered, looking Kael up and down. "Guards, remove this—"

  "Look at the track!" Kael interrupted, pointing frantically.

  Down below, the Ravok Talonfowl hit the mud mounds. Its claw-to-surface ratioTorque

  By the time they hit the final climb, the Stalker was gasping, its muscles flooded with lactic acid from the struggle in the pit. The "Chicken" tore past it, its feathers ruffled but its pace unwavering.

  The Ravok Talonfowl crossed the finish line. The odds had been 50-to-1

  The silence in the Noble’s box was no longer one of disgust—it was one of absolute, terrifying curiosity. The Nobleman who had been about to bet on the Stalker slowly turned his head to look at Kael. He still held his Golden Mark, but his eyes were narrowed, scanning Kael like he was a rare, dangerous specimen.

  Everyone in the VIP tier was staring. In a world where "luck" and "favor" were the only betting strategies, this disheveled man had just used a "logic" they didn't understand to predict an impossible upset.

  Kael realized he was standing in a room full of the most powerful people in the city, and he had just painted a massive target on his back.