Part F – Steel at the Door
The stone corridor outside Kuangren's chamber was colder than the rest of the Arena.
Two guards stood there, their iron helms glinting dully in the torchlight. Both carried spears, polished though scarred from years of breaking desperate fighters who tried to escape. They had seen men scream, beg, claw at the walls like animals. They had seen women slit their own throats rather than step into the square.
But neither had ever stood watch outside his door before.
Gu Kuangren.
The older of the two, a scar running down his jaw, shifted uneasily for the third time in as many minutes. He gripped his spear tighter, sweat prickling under his helmet despite the cold.
"You hear him?" he muttered.
The younger guard swallowed, glancing nervously at the heavy door. "Aye. Still laughing."
Indeed, faintly, muffled through stone and iron, Kuangren's laughter leaked out. It wasn't loud anymore, but steady — low, ragged chuckles, like a man talking to ghosts only he could see.
The younger guard shifted his weight, trying not to imagine crimson eyes glowing just beyond the wood.
"Mad bastard," the older guard spat, though his voice shook. "I've seen fighters boast. I've seen them weep. But I've never seen one laugh after Kael."
He shook his head, jaw tight. "Kael was a mountain. Snapped men like twigs. And this boy tore him apart."
The younger one shivered. "Fifteen, they say. Fifteen years old."
"That ain't fifteen," the older one growled. "That's something else wearing a boy's skin."
The torches flickered. Somewhere down the corridor, a rat squealed. Both men tensed.
The younger guard licked his lips. "You think the master means to… keep him?"
The older one's eyes narrowed. "If the master can chain him, he'll make a fortune. Crowds will pay tenfold to watch him fight. Maybe even challenge him against outsiders. But if he can't…"
He trailed off.
The younger guard whispered, voice trembling. "Then why put us here?"
The older one glanced at the door, at the faint outline of claw marks scratched deep into the wood from some earlier prisoner. He thought of the laughter behind it.
"Because someone has to stand here," he muttered darkly. "And pray the door holds."
For a long moment, the only sound was the laughter within.
Low. Uneven. Inhuman.
The younger guard shifted again, unable to stop himself. His knuckles were white on his spear.
"You ever think," he whispered, "that if he wanted out… this door wouldn't stop him?"
The older guard didn't answer. His silence was heavier than words.
Far above, on the shadowed walkways that wound the Arena's upper rings, Zhu Zhuqing moved like a ghost. She saw them, two men standing stiff as statues, eyes darting, ears straining. She didn't need to hear their words to know their fear.
Her gaze slipped past them to the iron-bound door.
They're afraid of him. Even the ones meant to guard him.
Her golden eyes narrowed.
What happens when their fear is justified?