Part D – Dance of Blades and Chains
The Arena quieted for a heartbeat.
That single moment, when all the screaming, jeering, and betting melted into anticipation, was always the sharpest edge of the fight. A silence before the storm.
Gu Kuangren stood utterly still in the square's center, the chipped iron sword dangling loosely in his right hand. His long black hair shifted faintly with the night breeze, crimson eyes unblinking as they drank in his foes.
Two predators circled him.
The chain-wielder moved first, pacing sideways, links rattling in a whispering rhythm. He flicked his wrist, sending the weighted end of the chain sliding across the ground with a hiss. Testing the distance.
The axe-bearer was less patient. He stomped forward, his grin too wide, twin blades resting against his shoulders as if he carried firewood instead of weapons. He chuckled, a deep, ugly sound that carried to the lowest seats.
"Pretty boy," he taunted, his voice thick with mockery. "Let's see if those red eyes still shine when I split your skull."
The crowd roared approval, throwing curses and coins alike.
Kuangren's lips barely moved.
"…Come then."
The axe-bearer surged forward with surprising speed for his bulk, axes raised high. The blades caught torchlight, two arcs of gleaming steel crashing downward like thunder.
Kuangren didn't move until the last possible moment.
Then — a sidestep, smooth as flowing water. His chipped sword rose, angling not to parry, but to guide. One axe screeched against its battered edge, momentum redirected into the ground. The second axe bit empty air, the swing overextended.
The crowd gasped at the fluidity, the elegance.
But Kuangren wasn't finished.
He leaned in close, so close the axe-bearer could see the madness burning in his crimson eyes, could smell the iron tang of his breath.
"You swing like cattle."
The whisper froze the man's grin for half a heartbeat. Then Kuangren shoved him back with a sharp twist of his wrist, breaking the flow before the chain snapped.
Clink.
The chain-wielder struck at last. The iron links whistled through the air, wrapping toward Kuangren's arm like a viper lunging for flesh.
But Kuangren's head tilted, his body folding low in a crouch. The chain bit only dust.
In that same instant, Kuangren's sword lashed upward, striking sparks against the chain as he redirected its path. The clang rang out sharp and metallic, echoing into the rafters.
The crowd erupted again, but Kuangren didn't acknowledge them. His crimson gaze flicked between his foes, reading them, dissecting them piece by piece.
The axe-bearer growled, stepping back, adjusting his stance. The chain-wielder reeled in his weapon, circling faster now, eyes narrowed with caution.
They weren't expecting survival. They were expecting slaughter.
But the crimson-eyed boy wasn't prey.
He was the storm they had been thrown into.
Kuangren straightened slowly, sword lowered once more, his long hair shadowing half his face. A smile curved his lips, patient, hungry.
"Good," he murmured, voice carrying across the square. "Don't die too quickly."
The crowd shivered, not with fear, but with feverish excitement.
And Zhu Zhuqing, high in the shadows of the stands, felt her claws dig deeper into the stone railing. Her heart beat fast, not from the fight — but from him.
Because he wasn't fighting to win.
He was fighting to enjoy.