Margaret Tucker AKA Lord Reaper novel Chapter 3

Margaret was 18. She was the true eldest heiress of the Tucker family, one of the four major families in Karemin.
She had gotten lost at five. She grew up far in the countryside. The Tuckers only found her and brought her home a year ago.
Life in the country made her shy and insecure. She had no special skills. Her grades were terrible.
After returning to the Tucker family, she made a fool of herself many times and became a well-known idiot in the upper-class circles of Capaville.
Her own parents were indifferent to her. Her successful brothers were ashamed of her. Life was miserable. She fell into depression. Sometimes, she even thought about killing herself.
A week ago, the senior she secretly liked asked to meet her outside the city. He promised to take her away from it all. He said he'd give her a happy life. She believed him.
But when she arrived, it was a trap. The senior wasn't there. Instead, a group of cruel traffickers was waiting for her.
They beat her brutally and broke her arms and legs. They shoved her into a bag. Then they shipped her across the ocean to this bloody underground pit.
Just before she lost consciousness, she learned the truth. Her "sweet" younger sister had hired those traffickers. And the senior she trusted? He actually had feelings for her sister.
As her body finished healing, Margaret sorted through these memories.
She found that the original owner of this body had truly led a miserable life. But Margaret felt little sympathy. She didn't like her cowardly character.
She was the true heiress, yet she let her adopted sister walk all over her.
And her judgment in guys was awful. Falling for that worthless senior?
Just because he once acted tough and scared off some local bullies, she gave him her whole heart.
If Margaret had been there, that so-called sister and that senior would have been finished long ago. They'd be pickled in jars.
But anyway, she was here now, in this body.
She would handle this. She'd clean up the mess for the poor girl.
*****
The fight pit was loud and crowded. People from different countries were here.
People waved the banknotes in their hands, watching the ring with excitement.
On the platform, a thin boy from Vyrthar was fighting a huge foreign brute. The big man was crushing the boy's skull. Blood was everywhere. After a few more hits, the boy lay dead on the mat.
The sight of a dead body didn't scare anyone. It made the crowd wilder, feeding their excitement.
Up on the second level were the VIP seats. The view was perfect. Anyone sitting there was either rich or powerful.
An Aethurian man puffed on his cigar. "My guest from Vyrthar, see that? My best fighter. Fifty fights, fifty kills." He pointed at the foreign brute in the ring.
He owned this place. Running a pit like this in this chaotic zone meant he had serious, dark connections. A certain terrorist organization backed him.
"Honored guest," he said. "I can give you what you want. But here is my deal. You pick one slave to fight my man. If you win, you get the item and walk away. If you lose, you pay me one billion dollars in cash.
"Those are the rules here. What do you say?"
Sitting across from him was a young man. He was strong and had the sharp features of a Vyrtharian. He wore a simple black shirt and was dangerously handsome.
The man had deep, chiseled facial features—sharp as if carved by a knife—exuding an icy coldness. He looked like a nocturnal creature that had not seen the sun for ages, hiding in the darkness.
He sat in a wheelchair, silent. But the pressure coming from him was heavy and impossible to ignore.
He gave the Aethurian man a bored look, as if he wasn't even worth a reply.
He just made a small gesture to the middle-aged man standing beside him.
The man understood. He turned to the pit owner. "My boss agrees. Take us to choose a slave."
The door to the underground cage screeched open. Harsh light cut into the darkness.
"My boss needs a slave to fight the foreign brute."
Hearing this, almost every slave in the cage shrank back. They tried to make themselves invisible. They prayed they wouldn't be chosen.
They all knew that fighter's reputation. Not long ago, he ripped a slave's arms and legs right off in the ring.
The middle-aged man looked at the slaves. They were skinny. Some were missing limbs. He frowned.
"Sir," he said quietly to his boss. "They're all useless. No one here can beat that brute. The pit boss is just trying to cheat us out of a billion."
"It doesn't matter." The man in the wheelchair finally spoke. His voice was low and rough. "On another man's turf, you follow the rules. At least for appearances."
The cage smelled awful. He covered his nose and mouth with a clean handkerchief.
He continued, his tone sharp. "If we lose, kill them all. Then we take the item anyway."
He said it calmly, as if he was talking about the weather.
While every other slave was hiding in the shadows, hoping not to be seen, one girl in the corner was different.
She kicked the iron bars hard. The loud clang made everyone turn.
A girl, covered in dried blood with wild hair, lifted her chin. A cocky, bold look was in her eyes.
"Hey, handsome," she called out. "Over here. Pick me for the fight. I guarantee I'll win for you. I'll make sure he never gets up again."