Part E – Baptism in the Blood Arena
The gates of the Blood Arena groaned as they swung open, a sound like iron dragged across stone. The air inside was heavy — thicker than the rest of Slaughter City. It stank of sweat, of rust, of blood both fresh and old.
Gu Kuangren stepped across the threshold, and the world changed.
The sun was gone here, swallowed by the towering walls that ringed the Arena. Torches sputtered high above, their flames small and weak against the weight of darkness. The floor was a vast circle of packed earth, stained nearly black from decades of slaughter. Shallow grooves ran through the dirt, little rivers carved by the endless flow of blood.
The crowd loomed above, packed into the tiers that circled the pit. Hundreds of faces — killers, beggars, thieves, whores, merchants, all bound together by one hunger. They leaned forward, eyes wide, mouths open, waiting. The sound of their voices was a storm.
"Kill him!""Let him bleed!""Crimson Shadow! Crimson Shadow!"
Kuangren breathed it in. The madness of the crowd sank into his veins, a current as sweet as wine. He tilted his head back and laughed, a low, ragged sound that carried across the pit.
The laughter silenced them, just for a heartbeat. Then the roar grew louder.
At the opposite gate, another set of doors opened.
His opponent stepped through.
He was no Garruk — smaller, leaner, with scars crisscrossing his torso. His weapon was a long spear, the shaft polished smooth by years of use. The man's eyes were sharp, wary, but Kuangren saw it instantly: the flicker of fear. The crimson eyes unsettled him.
Kuangren grinned wider. He raised his broken arm — still hanging loose from his earlier fight — and flexed it until the bones ground audibly. The crowd winced, some gagging, some cheering louder. His other hand reached down, dragging the borrowed mace along the dirt, leaving a line behind him like a signature.
The announcer, standing high above the pit, raised his voice:
"Tonight, the Arena welcomes… the Crimson Shadow!"
The crowd erupted, voices crashing together into a single howl.
Kuangren raised the mace and pointed it at his opponent.
"Let's bleed," he whispered.
The spear-man moved first, charging across the pit. The spear whistled as it thrust forward, aimed directly at Kuangren's chest.
Kuangren didn't step back. He stepped into the strike. The spear tore into his side, slicing flesh, spilling blood. The crowd gasped.
But Kuangren laughed, crimson eyes blazing. His free hand shot out, seizing the shaft of the spear and snapping it clean in two. With the same motion, he swung the mace upward in a savage arc.
The spikes ripped across the man's chest, tearing muscle and cloth alike. He screamed, staggering back.
Kuangren dropped the broken spear shaft, dragging his tongue across his bloodied lips. His voice was low, trembling with ecstasy.
"Yes… louder."
The fight became a dance of brutality.
The man thrust the remaining half of his spear desperately, striking at Kuangren's ribs, his shoulder, his thigh. Each time, Kuangren let it land, his body twisting with the impact. He grinned through every strike, crimson eyes alight with pleasure.
And each time, his counterstrikes grew heavier, more merciless. A mace to the knee — bone cracking. A boot to the stomach — blood spewing from the man's mouth. A fist across the jaw — teeth snapping loose.
The crowd was no longer chanting; they were screaming, their throats raw, voices unrestrained.
"Crimson Shadow! Crimson Shadow!"
High above, Zhu Zhuqing crouched in the shadows, watching. Her claws trembled against the stone. She had seen killers. She had seen cruelty. But what Kuangren displayed was something else — something that blurred the line between man and monster.
And yet, her heart raced faster. Her golden eyes followed every movement, memorizing him.
At last, the spear-man collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, body broken. Blood poured from his mouth, dripping down his chin. His eyes begged — not for mercy, but for it to end.
Kuangren towered over him, the mace dripping crimson.
The crowd waited. The Arena itself seemed to hold its breath.
Kuangren raised his free hand and placed it gently on the man's head, fingers tangling in his hair. For a heartbeat, it looked almost merciful. Almost human.
Then his grip tightened. With a savage twist, he snapped the man's neck. The crack echoed louder than the torches, louder than the screams.
The body fell limp. The Arena erupted.
Kuangren raised the mace high, blood raining from its spikes, crimson eyes blazing like fire.
"MORE!" he roared.
The walls shook with the force of the crowd's answer.
"Crimson Shadow! Crimson Shadow! Crimson Shadow!"
And above, hidden in shadow, Zhu Zhuqing whispered his name again, softer this time, as though admitting it to herself:
"…Gu Kuangren."