Middle Land was one of the Five Great Provinces.
Whether the Grant family came on their own or were merely representing another family, they would find out the next day.
The second day arrived. Upon waking, Robin found a Rolls-Royce Phantom parked at the entrance of Hotel Mountland. Beside the car, an elderly man dressed in a tailcoat stood – a figure who, under normal circumstances, would be considered a butler.
“Master Nightowl, I am Mr. Grant’s butler. My master has sent me to receive you,” he stated flawlessly. With a gesture of his hand, he signaled for Robin to get into the car.
“Hmm.” Robin got into the car.
“This is indeed Middle Land,” Nina Houry murmured as she ran her fingers over the leather seats of the car. The grandeur and luxury were unmistakably from Middle Land.
Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the racetrack. Many people were present, and the butler led them to an area occupied by a scant few. Among them was a middle-aged man with an aura of authority subtly emanating from him.
“Mr. Owl, correct? I am Matthew Grant,” the square-faced middle-aged man introduced himself. He exuded an aura of nobility and authority, but his face wore a slight smirk that was difficult to read.
“Yes,” Robin extended his hand for a handshake, which was not rebuffed.
Matthew Grant then introduced him to two other individuals. One of them was a woman with peculiar patterns on her clothes. “This is Allie, a representative from the France family of Westland,” he explained, his gaze slightly strange.
Robin understood why. Westland, located to the west of Kisia, had always been a place shrouded in mystery. Its inhabitants were known for their expertise in handling poisonous insects. Infuriating them meant not knowing when one could succumb to their fatal poison. Under normal circumstances, no one would dare to provoke these people.
Furthermore, it was unusual to meet someone from Westland. The encounter was truly filled with mystery and peculiarity.
“This is Betty Laydon, the scout team leader from South Land. Just a friendly reminder, her father is the General Benson Laydon of South Land,” Matthew Grant whispered to Robin, “Both of them are not to be trifled with.”
“Hello.” Compared to Allie’s icy demeanor, Betty Laydon was quite friendly.
She didn’t resemble the stereotypical characters on TV who would get annoyed when their father’s name was mentioned during their introduction. She understood that if it wasn’t for her father’s reputation, she would have lost her life countless times already.
For instance, if Nightowl wasn’t aware of her identity, he might have killed her without a second thought. But knowing who she was, he wouldn’t dare.
Benson Laydon held a high position in the South Land military. He was Walton Myers’ chief strategist, overseeing the entire military intelligence operations of South Land. His power was immense, not something an ordinary person could provoke.
“Hmm,” was all Robin responded.
After all, Nightowl was a ruthless assassin.
Betty Laydon didn’t take offense. She had done her research on Nightowl and knew he was incredibly arrogant. But the young lady with him, Nina Houry, wasn’t arrogant at all.
Immediately, Betty Laydon took Nina Houry aside, saying, “Let’s chat about some girly things.” At the same time, she reassured Robin, “Don’t worry, I won’t draw my sword.”
Her words put everyone at ease. She wasn’t there to steal their weapons.
This was a small gathering hosted by Matthew Grant. It was a rare occasion where several intelligence agencies from Mountland were present. If she stole something, she probably wouldn’t be able to leave Mountland.
“Mr. Owl, have you ever bet on horse races?” Dylan Harding, the current host of Mountland, asked as he approached.
“I’ve watched them,” Robin replied.
Robin glanced at the racetrack below.
A large circle, at the starting point, ten horses were preparing for the off, surrounded by many people, all shouting and cheering at the horses, for their money was staked on one of them. If their chosen horse won, it would be their time to make a fortune.
“I’ve chosen number one,” said one man, “because number one is mighty and powerful. Look at its robust physique, it’s very likely to be the first. Dylan Harding, what’s your pick?” Matthew Grant asked as he walked over.
“Number three, I think its legs are thick, apparently very strong,” Dylan Harding replied.
“And you?” Matthew Grant then asked the others.
“I chose number five because it has beautiful white fur,” Betty Laydon added as she came over.
“I don’t bet on horses,” Allie shook her head. “If I did, you all would lose. My poison can infiltrate the bodies of these horses, and the guards wouldn’t notice.”
“Right,” Matthew Grant nodded in agreement, finished questioning her, then turned to Robin, patted him on the shoulder and asked, “So, Mr. Owl, which horse have you set your sights on?”
“Number ten,” Robin indicated the last one.
Suddenly, everyone paused. It was Dylan Harding who finally frowned and said, “Mr. Owl, are you sure? Number ten is the weakest-looking horse in this race, also the shortest, not good-looking, and seems to have a problem with its feet. The odds for this short-legged horse are the lowest.”
“I’m sure. Wait and see,” Robin said.
“Alright, we’ll see in the end,” Matthew Grant called a waiter over, “Just guessing is boring. Let’s make it exciting, let’s bet money. Here’s fifty million, I bet on number one. Do you want to join?”
“Just for fun. I’ll also bet fifty million.” Dylan Harding also bet fifty million.
“I’m in,” Betty Laydon followed.
In the end, everyone’s gaze turned to Robin. Robin slowly said, “I don’t have that much money, but I can stake this knife. It’s worth fifty million.”
“This…” The waiter was stunned.
Just as he was about to say it was not feasible, Matthew Grant patted him on the shoulder, “This knife is worth fifty million, just go tell your boss I said so.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the waiter nodded again and again.
He knew that these people were all big bosses. Unaware and inexperienced, he didn’t know that this knife was truly worth fifty million, a famous knife with a rich history. But as for its real value, Matthew Grant and others didn’t care.
What they cared about was that Nightowl would even pawn his own knife. Was he out of money? Or just trying to keep up appearances?
However, a swordsman without his sword would lose half his battle power, but Matthew Grant and others didn’t say much because they were happy to see this scene.