Part G – The Master's Council
The council chamber lay deep beneath the Arena, carved into the bedrock itself. The walls were lined with torches, their flames burning blue from special oil, casting sharp shadows that gave every face a hard edge.
At the head of the long obsidian table sat the Arena master, his black robes flowing like liquid shadow. His hood was lowered now, revealing sharp, angular features: high cheekbones, eyes like cold steel, and lips that rarely betrayed more than the faintest curve of amusement.
Around him, six figures sat: the Arena's lieutenants. Each oversaw a different aspect of the blood trade — wagers, fighters, supply, security, cleanup, and records. Hardened men and women, every one of them seasoned by years of violence and profit.
Tonight, their voices were raised.
"He's dangerous," spat a scarred woman with one blind eye, her fingers drumming on the table. "Kael wasn't just strong — he was reliable. Controlled. We knew what he'd do in the pit. But this boy?" She sneered. "He's wild. A beast. You can't build profit on madness."
Across from her, a man in fine silk laughed, his rings clinking as he waved a jeweled hand. "Can't we? The crowd adores him already. They're whispering his name in the halls. By tomorrow, it'll be on every tongue in Slaughter City. Madness sells. Fear sells. The people will line up for blood as long as it's his."
The blind-eyed woman slammed her fist down. "Until he turns on us."
The master raised a hand, and silence fell. His voice was calm, deliberate, each word cutting like a blade.
"He is dangerous. That much is certain. But danger, my friends, is what we trade in. Every fighter, every killer who steps into our square, is a blade pointed not just at his opponent, but at us. The question is not whether Gu Kuangren is a danger… but whether we can aim that danger."
The silken man smirked. "And if we can't?"
The master's lips curved, just slightly. "Then we will aim him at death itself. A spectacle. The kind they will remember for decades."
The record-keeper, a thin, bookish man whose quill was always scratching, spoke for the first time. His voice was reedy but precise.
"He is only fifteen. His growth potential… is unprecedented. If his strength rises as fast as his reputation, he may outlast every fighter we have. Even the veterans."
A ripple passed around the table. Some eyes gleamed with greed, others narrowed with caution.
The master's own gaze sharpened. "Which is why we will feed him carefully. Not too fast, not too slow. Opponents strong enough to stoke his madness, weak enough to let him win spectacularly. We will cultivate him like a blade in the forge."
The blind-eyed woman scowled. "And when the blade cuts the smith?"
The master leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
"Then we break it. Publicly. Gloriously. A death so savage the Arena will feast on it for years."
His eyes gleamed with cold certainty.
"But until that day, he is ours."
The council murmured, some nodding, some grumbling, but none dared press further. The master's word was law.
Only the blind-eyed woman muttered under her breath as she rose from the table. "Blades cut both ways. Remember that."
Above, in the rafters of the chamber, unseen and unheard, a shadow crouched.
Zhu Zhuqing's golden eyes glimmered faintly as she absorbed every word.
The Arena saw Kuangren as a weapon, a beast to be fed and chained.
But she knew better.
Weapons could be wielded. Chains could bind.
But madness?
Madness burned everything it touched.