Part A – The Demon in His Cell
The iron door clanged shut behind him.
Gu Kuangren didn't flinch at the sound. The noise of locking metal was as common to him as the toll of a temple bell might be to another man. He crossed the threshold of his narrow cell with unhurried steps, dragging his chipped sword in a lazy scrape against the stone floor. The blade left a faint crimson streak behind, still wet with blood from the square.
The torch on the wall guttered, casting shadows that stretched and writhed like corpses on gallows. Kuangren sat down on the cold floor, folding his long frame with surprising grace, his back against the wall. At 205 centimeters, even seated he looked like a predator penned in a cage far too small.
He lifted the sword, studied its jagged edge. Flakes of rust clung to the metal, mingling with fresh blood.
"Still alive, old friend," he muttered, voice low and rasped with exhaustion and exhilaration all at once. "Another feast tonight."
He ran a finger down the blade, uncaring as it nicked him. A bead of his own blood joined the rest. He licked it clean.
The taste was different. He knew it well enough to tell. His was bitter, sharp. Theirs had been saltier, heavier with fear.
A smile tugged his lips.
The sounds of the crowd still rang faintly in his skull. The chant—Slaughter Demon! Slaughter Demon!—echoed like a drumbeat. Many men would have crumbled under such a name, would have shrunk or tried to deny it.
But Kuangren embraced it. Names were chains to some. To him, they were sharpened edges.
He set the sword across his knees and closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, he saw not darkness but the blur of blood. He saw the axe-bearer's widening eyes as his chest split open. He heard the chain-wielder's ragged breath cut short when Kuangren's blade slid across his throat.
The memories weren't ghosts to haunt him. They were treasures to savor.
Kuangren chuckled.
Then he heard other voices, not from today but from years ago.
"Monster."
"He's not like the other children."
"Keep him away—he'll hurt someone."
"An orphan like him? Best throw him to the streets before he turns."
Kuangren's crimson eyes snapped open.
Yes. He remembered. The whispers of villagers, the way their gazes slid away from him as though looking directly at him might invite misfortune. The way mothers pulled children behind them when he passed, though he had done nothing yet.
They hadn't been wrong.
He'd always been different.
And now, in this city of slaughter, their fear had found its proper stage.
Here, he wasn't cursed.
Here, he was crowned.
His laughter rang off the stone walls, unhinged yet oddly melodic, and the guards outside exchanged uneasy glances.
"Is he laughing?" one whispered.
"Best not listen. Some of them… their madness sticks to you."
Kuangren ignored them. His crimson eyes gleamed in the dark, reflecting torchlight like a predator's.
And for a moment, unbidden, an image pierced his thoughts.
Not of the men he killed, nor of his past.
But of golden eyes in the crowd, unflinching, watching him.
The memory slowed his grin. He tilted his head back against the wall, lips curving again, softer this time.
"…You didn't look away."
The words slipped out, a whisper, but they echoed in the emptiness like a vow.