Part A – The Walk Back
The iron gate clanged shut behind him, cutting off the roar of the crowd.
Inside the preparation hall, the air was still, damp, and heavy with the metallic stench of blood. Torches guttered along the walls, their flames casting long shadows across the stone corridor. Here, away from the chanting masses, the silence pressed down like a shroud.
Gu Kuangren's footsteps echoed, each one deliberate, slow, leaving dark crimson prints in his wake. Blood still dripped steadily from his side, soaking the ragged cloth clinging to his tall frame. His shoulders were broad enough to brush the walls, his long hair trailing across his back in dark, sweat-matted strands.
He could still feel Kael's last breath against his palm. He could still hear the sound of the skull breaking.
And it thrilled him.
Kuangren exhaled, a low, guttural sound between a sigh and a laugh. His crimson eyes gleamed in the dim light, still wild, still hungry.
But now, without the crowd, without the music of weapons clashing, the hunger gnawed deeper.
He wanted more.
At the far end of the hall, a servant waited nervously, carrying a basin of water and a stack of rough bandages. The boy's eyes were wide, his hands trembling as he watched the bloodied giant approach.
"M-Master Crimson Shadow," the boy stammered, lowering his gaze. "You should… you should be treated, or you—"
Kuangren walked past him without a glance. His massive frame loomed, his presence heavy, his scent of iron and sweat filling the corridor.
The servant flinched as Kuangren's bloody hand brushed the basin's edge, not to take it, but to smear it red before moving on.
"I don't need fixing," Kuangren muttered, voice low and rough. "Scars are proof I was alive."
The servant swallowed, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touched the floor.
Kuangren continued into the deeper chambers, the light dimming as the torches grew sparse.
But he was not alone.
High above, clinging to the ceiling shadows like a panther, Zhu Zhuqing moved silently. Her golden eyes gleamed faintly, fixed on the trail of bloody footprints below.
Every step he took fascinated her. He did not limp. He did not falter. Despite his many wounds, he strode as though the pain were nothing more than an echo of pleasure.
He should be collapsing, she thought, claws curling against the stone. And yet he keeps moving forward, as if his body bends to his will, not the other way around.
The memory of his crimson eyes burned in her mind, their light more vivid than any torch.
What drives you?
At last, Kuangren reached his chamber—bare stone walls, a wooden bench, and chains embedded into the floor for those who lost control after battle.
He sat heavily, the stone groaning beneath his weight. His breaths were slow, deep, controlled. His chest rose and fell like a great beast at rest, yet the hunger still lingered in his eyes.
With deliberate slowness, he lifted his left hand, still caked in Kael's blood. He turned it in the torchlight, studying the streaks of red across his palm, the lines of dried gore in the grooves of his skin.
He smiled faintly.
"Still warm," he murmured.
Zhu Zhuqing crouched above the chamber's doorway, unseen. Her tail flicked once, her breath shallow.
She had come here to learn, to measure this man called the Crimson Shadow. But what she found unsettled her.
He did not brag. He did not celebrate. He simply sat there, bloodied and silent, as though content to exist in the stillness of slaughter's aftermath.
Most killers want to forget. He… savors it.
Her claws dug deeper into the stone.
For the first time in years, she felt something dangerous stir inside her chest.
Curiosity.