Part C – The Square Fills With Blood
The square lived on blood.
Not metaphorically, not poetically — literally. The stone beneath the torches was blackened from years of soaking, each crack and groove thick with dried crimson that could never be washed away. The smell clung to the air like a second skin: iron, rot, sweat, and the faint sweet edge of decay.
Tonight, the crowd had gathered earlier than usual. A rumor had spread through the gutters and alleys of Slaughter City — the Crimson Demon would fight again.
Men with missing teeth jeered in anticipation, slamming rusted weapons together. Women with eyes too hollow for tears leaned close to the walls, hoping for another coin tossed their way if the victor was generous. Children too old to be innocent and too young to understand crowded at the edges, hungry-eyed.
All of them fed on the same thing.
Death.
Zhu Zhuqing moved with the crowd but did not belong to it. She kept to the periphery, her hood drawn low, her steps lighter than the heartbeat pounding in her chest. The noise washed over her, but her attention was locked only on the gates at the far end of the square.
That was where he would appear.
Gu Kuangren.
The name rolled in her thoughts like thunder. She told herself she was only watching, only measuring, only weighing this strange, dangerous boy against her own path. But beneath the cool discipline, something twisted. Something uncomfortable.
Curiosity.
She clenched her fists at her sides. Curiosity was dangerous. Curiosity killed.
And yet she stayed.
The arena-master stepped into the square first. A hunched man with a scar from jaw to temple, his voice hoarse but loud enough to cut through the roar of the crowd.
"Tonight," he bellowed, "we offer you blood! We offer you fear! We offer you the one you've all come to see — the Crimson Demon of Slaughter City!"
The crowd erupted, chanting his name, though many had never spoken it aloud. Kuangren! Kuangren! Kuangren! The torches flared higher, flames bending as if pulled by the energy of the mob.
Zhu Zhuqing's ears twitched beneath her hood. The chant was more than noise. It was hunger. It was worship. They weren't cheering for a man — they were cheering for their executioner, their reflection, the embodiment of what this city demanded of them all.
And then the gates creaked open.
Gu Kuangren stepped into the square.
No fanfare. No hesitation. Just a towering silhouette emerging from the shadows, long hair spilling around his shoulders, crimson eyes gleaming like twin lanterns of hellfire. His broken sword rested lazily across his shoulder, its jagged edge glinting with residual stains.
The crowd fell silent for the briefest instant. Silence born not of respect, but of fear.
Then the roar returned, louder, a tidal wave crashing down.
Kuangren did not acknowledge them. His gaze swept across the square, not to the mob, not to the arena-master, but to the ground itself — the black stone, the stains, the bones half-buried in cracks.
Zhu Zhuqing's sharp eyes caught the subtle curl of his lips. Not joy, not pride. Something darker.
He likes this place.
From the opposite gate, his opponents emerged.
Three this time.
The first was a broad man with twin axes, muscles bulging, veins standing out like ropes. He snarled at Kuangren as though intimidation might mean something here.
The second was leaner, armed with a chain tipped with a hook, the links rattling with each step. His grin was too wide, his eyes darting constantly — a scavenger's gaze.
The third was the strangest: a woman draped in tattered cloth, her hands empty but her posture alert. Spirit rings glowed faintly around her, and her eyes were sharp.
Zhu Zhuqing focused on her. A spirit master… not common here.
The crowd sensed it too, their excitement spiking. Three against one. A spirit master among them. Surely this time, the Crimson Demon would bleed.
Kuangren tilted his head, studying them. He said nothing. He didn't roar or posture. He just… looked.
Zhu Zhuqing felt it even from the edge of the crowd — that gaze was heavier than a weapon. The three opponents shifted under it, their bravado faltering.
The arena-master shouted for the fight to begin.
The axes-man charged first, bellowing, his weapons raised high.
Kuangren didn't move until the last instant. Then his body twisted, fluid and precise, the broken sword sweeping up. Metal clashed with metal, sparks spitting across the square.
But Kuangren's strength was monstrous. With a single push, he flung the larger man back, the axes ringing against the stone as he stumbled.
Before the man could recover, Kuangren lunged. His blade came down in a brutal arc, carving through flesh and bone. The scream tore through the night as blood sprayed, painting the stones anew.
The crowd howled.
Zhu Zhuqing's eyes widened. She had expected ferocity. But not this.
He moved with the calm of someone sharpening a blade, not killing a man. There was no wasted energy, no hesitation. Only inevitability.
The chain-user struck next, hurling the hook toward Kuangren's throat.
Kuangren caught it. With his bare hand.
Blood welled as the steel dug into his palm, but he didn't flinch. His crimson eyes locked onto the scavenger's. And then he pulled.
The man stumbled forward, dragged like a fish on a line. Kuangren yanked harder, and the chain snapped taut — then the jagged sword rose, severing flesh from shoulder to hip.
The body hit the stone with a wet thud.
Kuangren's hand still bled, crimson dripping down his wrist. He lifted it to his lips, licking the blood with deliberate slowness, his gaze never leaving the last opponent.
The crowd screamed their adoration.
Zhu Zhuqing felt her stomach twist. Not with disgust. With something more dangerous. Fascination.
The woman stepped forward at last. Spirit rings flared around her — one yellow, one purple, one black. She lifted her arms, and spectral blades shimmered into being, floating at her command.
Zhu Zhuqing inhaled sharply. A Soul Elder. Stronger than she had expected.
Kuangren tilted his head again, eyes narrowing with interest. "Finally," he murmured, though the crowd was too loud to hear.
The blades shot forward, slicing through the air in a deadly swarm. Kuangren moved, faster than his size should allow, weaving between them, his broken sword flashing to deflect the closest strikes. Steel rang against spirit energy, sparks scattering like fireflies.
But one blade nicked his shoulder. Another grazed his thigh. Blood welled, dripping down his body.
The crowd gasped. For the first time, the Crimson Demon bled.
Zhu Zhuqing leaned forward, every sense alert. This was no ordinary fight. This was a test.
And she could see it in his eyes — Gu Kuangren was enjoying himself.
He lunged, closing the distance with terrifying speed. The woman backpedaled, sending more spectral blades in waves, but he pressed on, each slash of his jagged sword cutting them aside, shattering spirit constructs with brute force.
Then he was upon her.
His blade swung — she blocked with two conjured swords. The impact rattled her bones, forced her to her knees. Kuangren leaned down, crimson eyes burning inches from her face.
"Not enough."
The jagged edge tore through her defenses, through flesh, through everything. Her scream was cut short as blood sprayed across his chest.
The crowd lost itself in ecstasy.
Kuangren stood tall again, drenched, his crimson eyes glowing brighter against the torchlight. His chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately. He looked not like a victor, but like a god feeding on sacrifice.
Zhu Zhuqing's breath caught. Her claws dug into her palms beneath her cloak.
She had come to measure him. To judge.
But in that moment, staring at the blood-drenched figure in the arena, she realized something terrifying.
There is no measure for him.