Wen Kexing doesn't blame the general look of confusion on the group's face, he's pretty sure Jacob just started speaking in tongues. Maybe that's the point, to put his opponent on the wrong foot. He's certainly used a similar tactic, spouting wordy poetry enough to entangle thoughts, baffle someone until he gets his way. He'll ask later, for now he merely wafts his fan lazily, leaning his elbow on the bartop.

"Ten silver on Master Frye's victory."

A bet is easy enough, whips the rest of the idiot group into a frenzy. Livius immediately rises to it, backing his own man, as do the rest. He smiles, easy. They might as well make some money too, he has enough faith in Jacob for that. When Livius leans close, Wen Kexing keeps his expression impassive.

"You don't think I'd offer you anything subpar, do you? You've seen what I work with."

The women, the drugs, and now Jacob, whom Wen Kexing grins knifelike at over the edge of his hidden weapon.