Part A – After the Kill
The stone floor of the cell was still damp.
The guards had thrown water to wash away the blood, but the cracks between the stones still held dark stains, thin veins of red like roots crawling outward from where Kael had died.
Kuangren sat cross-legged in the center, his back straight, his long black hair hanging in loose, tangled strands that brushed the ground. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, but awake — always awake. Sleep did not come easily to him. Not here. Not anywhere.
The air was heavy, the stench of rusted iron and dried gore clinging stubbornly to the walls. Chains rattled faintly above, fixed into the stone like a mockery of restraint, though none dared to bind him with them.
He had broken chains before.
A faint smile curved his lips, though it did not reach his eyes.
Kael…
The name rose like an echo, then dissolved into nothing. He remembered the way the man's eyes bulged when his strength left him, when the crowd's roars drowned out the last of his breath. He remembered the moment his blade had cut deeper than flesh, into spirit, into pride.
That moment… it lingered, warm, alive.
Kuangren breathed it in, savoring it like a fine wine.
Others fought for survival. For coin. For freedom.
He fought because killing made him feel whole.
He leaned back slowly, until his shoulders touched the cold wall, the stone rough against his skin. He tilted his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling above, where faint scratches marred the surface — desperate marks left by whoever had been here before him.
Some had prayed. Some had begged. Some had tried to escape.
Kuangren's laughter — low, quiet — broke the silence again.
"Fools," he murmured, voice husky. "All of them."
His hand drifted lazily to his side, fingers brushing the hilt of the rusted practice blade they had thrown him. Not the Seven Kill Sword. Not the other one either. No, they would never dare let him call forth his true soul.
But it didn't matter.
Even a dull edge could carve a man's throat if guided by the right hands.
Kuangren's thumb stroked the battered hilt, almost tenderly.
"They'll send another," he whispered. "Or two. Or three. They always do."
His lips split into a slow grin.
"I'll paint this place red again."
Footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor. A voice murmured, low but tense, outside the door.
"… still awake."
"… never sleeps. Like a beast waiting."
The words reached his ears, muffled but clear enough.
Kuangren chuckled under his breath. The guards thought themselves unseen, unheard. They thought their whispers were safe beyond the iron door.
But he heard everything.
"Afraid of me already," he murmured to himself, crimson eyes glinting in the dim torchlight. "Good."
His head tilted, almost playfully.
"Fear keeps them alive. For now."
The laughter came again — soft, uneven, but undeniable.
It crawled under the door, seeped into the corridor, sent a shiver through the guards on duty. They shifted uncomfortably, trying not to look at one another, trying not to acknowledge the sound.
In the silence that followed, Kuangren's crimson eyes closed, though he did not sleep.
He sat there, waiting.
For the next fight.
For the next life to end.
For the chains to break.