Part C – Aftermath of the Dance
The blood on the Arena floor had not yet settled when the horn sounded, signaling Kael's defeat.
But there was no eruption of joy, no triumphant cheers like those that usually followed a clean kill. The voices of the crowd were fractured, some screaming Kuangren's name with trembling awe, others falling silent, unwilling to acknowledge the monster that now stood over Kael's corpse.
The announcer's voice, usually booming and theatrical, cracked as it echoed through the chamber:
"Victory… goes to… the Crimson Shadow!"
The title rolled across the Arena like thunder, but it sounded less like a celebration and more like a proclamation of dread.
Gu Kuangren stood alone in the pit, his massive frame towering over Kael's broken body. His bare hands dripped with blood, crimson streaks gleaming against his pale skin. His long black hair, plastered to his face with sweat and gore, made him look less like a man and more like some unholy specter pulled from the depths of slaughter.
He bent down, slowly, almost tenderly, and wrenched Kael's remaining blade from his limp grasp. The weapon glinted in the torchlight, and for a moment Kuangren simply studied it, turning it in his hand.
Then he cast it aside with a snort, uninterested.
"He was fast," Kuangren muttered, his voice carrying in the eerie silence. "But not fast enough."
He tilted his head back, crimson eyes sweeping the stands. Thousands of faces looked down at him, some pale with fear, others flushed with excitement. Kuangren's grin widened, sharp and feral.
"Faster!" he roared. "Stronger! Give me more!"
The words reverberated across the Arena. Some of the crowd broke into frantic cheers, swept up in the madness of it. Others turned away, whispering of demons, curses, and a man too dangerous to live.
High above, in the shadows of the stone balcony, Zhu Zhuqing remained crouched, her golden eyes unblinking.
She had seen death before. She had dealt it herself. But never like this.
This man—this Gu Kuangren—fought not to survive, not to dominate, but to revel. Every strike, every wound, was part of a dance only he understood. He had made Kael's greatest strength into his downfall, pulling him deeper into a rhythm of slaughter until he was no longer fighting an opponent but being devoured by a storm.
Zhu Zhuqing's claws flexed against the stone. Her heartbeat thudded louder in her ears.
I should be disgusted, she told herself. I should turn away.
And yet her golden eyes did not leave him.
Why can't I look away?
At the far edge of the Arena, a shadowed balcony overlooked the pit. Behind an iron lattice, cloaked in black, the Arena master sat unmoving. His face was obscured, but his eyes gleamed with a predator's interest.
The aide beside him, pale and trembling, finally spoke:
"Master… he's dangerous. Too dangerous. If we unleash him too freely, he could—"
"Silence," the Arena master interrupted, voice low and measured. "Do you not feel it? This one is different."
He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Kuangren's blood-drenched figure.
"Most men who come here are broken. They fight to survive. Some fight to prove themselves. But him…"
The master's lips curved in a thin smile.
"He fights because he loves it. He hungers for it. That is power we can use."
The aide swallowed hard, bowing his head.
"Yes… Master."
Back in the pit, Kuangren turned and walked toward the gate, each heavy step leaving a bloody print in the dirt. The roar of the crowd followed him—half worship, half fear. His grin did not fade.
The blood sang in his veins. His wounds burned, his muscles ached, and every inch of his body screamed with life.
This was what he was born for.
Slaughter.
Above, Zhu Zhuqing's gaze followed him until he vanished into the shadows of the preparation hall. Her claws finally retracted, leaving shallow gouges in the stone. She exhaled slowly, her chest tight with emotions she didn't understand.
What are you, Gu Kuangren?