Part F – The Eyes of the Square
The fight had ended, but the square did not quiet.
If anything, it grew louder.
The bodies of the axe-bearer and the chain-wielder still twitched on the ground, their lifeblood spreading in messy pools that glistened under torchlight. The stench of copper grew heavy, almost choking.
And Gu Kuangren stood in the center, his chipped sword dripping crimson, his chest rising and falling in unhurried rhythm.
He didn't seem to breathe the same air as the others.
Where the crowd smelled death and recoiled, he drew it in, as though inhaling perfume.
The audience's voices fractured into chaos:
"He—he killed them both!"
"Like nothing! He didn't even flinch—"
"Monster!"
"No… not a monster. Look at him! That's strength! That's what we came to see!"
"Strength? That was butchery!"
The stands shook as some howled with approval, others spat curses, and more simply stared in numb silence. Men who had jeered earlier found themselves quiet, their throats tight, unwilling to draw Kuangren's crimson gaze. Women who came to the Slaughter City to cheer carnage now looked away, unsettled by how much he seemed to enjoy it.
And yet—others leaned forward, eyes shining. Some had been broken by this city, reduced to husks clinging to violence. To them, Kuangren wasn't madness. He was clarity.
He was what they secretly wanted to be.
Kuangren raised his sword slowly, letting the blood drip onto the stone. He tilted his head, studying the red patterns the droplets formed. His lips curved faintly upward.
"Every drop writes a story," he murmured.
The words were soft, meant for himself. But in the unnatural silence that followed the kills, they carried.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"He talks to the blood…"
"Did you hear? He's insane."
"No. He's seeing something we can't. That's not madness—it's vision."
Among the shadowed rows, a pair of feline-gold eyes had not looked away once.
Zhu Zhuqing's arms were folded across her chest, her posture rigid, but her gaze was unwavering. Her cold mask hid the turmoil inside.
She had seen many die in this arena. Seen blood, heard screams, watched men crawl across the sand for scraps of life. But Gu Kuangren's way was… different.
Most fought because they had to. Some fought with rage, others with desperation.
But he—
He fought with joy.
Every strike, every parry, every wound drawn, it wasn't necessity. It was hunger.
Her instincts told her he was dangerous. Not the way most men were, not like predators who leered or schemed. Kuangren's danger was purer, stripped of all disguise. He lived only to fight and to kill, and yet… there was something magnetic in that honesty.
She exhaled softly, her eyes narrowing.
If he survives long enough… he'll be unstoppable.
For the first time since entering this cursed city, she felt her path brush against someone else's.
Back in the square, Kuangren bent down, dragging the axe-bearer's body with one hand. The man's limp weight thudded across the stone as Kuangren positioned him beside the chain-wielder.
The audience murmured, confused.
"What's he doing?"
"He's not finished?"
"Gods, he's arranging them…"
Kuangren propped both corpses against each other, a grotesque parody of comradeship, their slack faces pressed shoulder to shoulder. Blood oozed between them, mixing until their individual stains became one.
He stepped back, studying his work like an artist inspecting a painting.
Then he dipped his fingers into the pooled blood and streaked it across his chest, dragging lines over his pale skin like war paint. His crimson eyes glowed brighter in the torchlight.
The crowd erupted—half in wild approval, half in horrified disbelief.
"Madman!"
"Genius!"
"Slaughter Demon!"
The title rippled outward, whispered, repeated, until dozens, then hundreds of throats carried it.
"Slaughter Demon…"
"Slaughter Demon…!"
Kuangren tilted his head back and laughed, deep and jagged, the sound cutting through the chaos like a blade.
From high above, the Arena Master watched.
The robed figure sat cloaked in shadow, his face unseen, but his eyes fixed on the boy in the square. Most fighters who won two-on-one matches barely survived. Many were left crippled. Few lived to fight again.
But this boy—this Gu Kuangren—had not only survived.
He had thrived.
The Master's lips curved in the darkness.
The City loves monsters. Perhaps I've found my next.
Zhu Zhuqing saw the figure watching too. Her golden eyes flicked upward for only a heartbeat before returning to Kuangren. She recognized the significance. Few earned the Master's notice so quickly.
Her gaze lingered on Kuangren's broad frame, the height that made him tower even at fifteen, the way his long black hair, matted with streaks of blood, still fell in a strangely graceful curtain.
Her chest tightened. She despised weakness. She had vowed to never be chained again, to never live as prey.
But looking at him, standing there drenched in blood, crimson eyes alight with laughter, she felt a dangerous thought creep in.
What if I follow him instead of fleeing alone?
She pushed it down. She would not let her fate be dictated by anyone.
And yet… her eyes did not leave him.
Kuangren at last lowered his sword. The crowd was still a storm of voices, but he no longer seemed to hear them. He looked upward, toward the Arena Master's balcony, as though he felt the weight of that gaze.
The laughter subsided. His face hardened, sharpened.
He raised the chipped blade in salute—mocking, taunting, yet also acknowledging.
A promise.
"I'll give you more."
The words weren't shouted. They didn't need to be. The entire square seemed to hear them anyway.
The guards entered, dragging the corpses away, scrubbing at the stone, but the bloodstains were too deep, too many. The square would reek for days.
As Kuangren walked toward the gates, crimson eyes scanning the rows one last time, he paused.
His gaze swept over the crowd. Men shuddered when it passed over them. Women ducked their heads.
But then—
It caught.
On golden feline eyes staring back from the shadows.
Zhu Zhuqing did not flinch.
For a moment, the chaos of the arena fell silent in his mind. The laughter paused on his lips.
Two predators saw each other.
Something unspoken passed between them—recognition, challenge, inevitability.
Then the moment broke. Kuangren smirked faintly, turning away, vanishing into the tunnel's darkness.
The square roared again behind him, the crowd's chants filling the night.
"Slaughter Demon!"
"Slaughter Demon!"
The name clung to him like a crown of thorns.
And he wore it gladly.