Part D – The Aftermath
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
No jeers. No chants. No shouts of triumph. Just silence — heavy, suffocating, as if the square itself held its breath.
Then the roar erupted.
It was not the roar of anger or mourning, but of rapture. Men screamed Kuangren's name until their throats tore raw. Women clawed at one another to get closer to the blood-slick stones, hoping to touch the residue of the slaughter. Children with hollow eyes stamped their feet in time with the chant.
Kuangren. Kuangren. Kuangren.
The square had been hungry. He had fed it.
Gu Kuangren stood in the center of the carnage, drenched in crimson. The jagged sword hung loosely in his hand, dripping, streaked with flesh. His long black hair clung to his shoulders, heavy with blood.
His chest rose and fell with measured slowness. Not exhaustion. Not even exhilaration. Just control.
He lifted his gaze to the mob, crimson eyes gleaming brighter than the torchlight.
The roar faltered.
In those eyes, there was no triumph. No appeal. Only inevitability.
The crowd remembered, all at once, that they were cheering not for a hero, but for a predator. A beast with no leash, no master, and no cage strong enough to hold him.
The chant grew quieter, replaced by nervous laughter, forced applause. Some still screamed his name, but their voices cracked with unease.
Zhu Zhuqing did not cheer.
She stood at the edge of the square, hood drawn low, her body taut with tension. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She had watched men die before. She had trained to kill, to survive. But never — never like this.
It was not the blood itself that unnerved her. It was what came after.
Kuangren should have looked satisfied. Victors always did. Whether pride, greed, or arrogance, they always displayed something human.
But he looked like stone.
Cold. Distant. Unmoved.
The blood dripping from his blade might as well have been rain to him.
Zhu Zhuqing's breath caught.
He doesn't kill to win. He kills because killing is truth.
The thought slithered through her mind like a viper. She wanted to cast it out, but she couldn't. Because when she looked at him, she felt it too — that dangerous whisper.
Maybe that was why she hadn't fled yet.
The arena-master shuffled forward, nervous. His voice wavered, though he tried to shout as before.
"Victor… Gu Kuangren!"
The crowd clapped, some cheered, others turned away quickly. Fear stank sharper than blood.
Kuangren tilted his head, regarding the arena-master. For a moment, the hunched man froze, as if expecting his throat to be cut next. But Kuangren simply turned his gaze aside, walking toward the gate.
Each step echoed. Slow. Deliberate. Like a drumbeat of execution.
The crowd parted before him, retreating into shadows, unwilling to brush against him even by accident. Mothers clutched children tighter. Thieves lowered their eyes. Hardened killers who had bathed in blood all their lives found their hands trembling.
He passed among them like a reaper.
Zhu Zhuqing shadowed him, careful to keep her distance. Her body still hummed with tension, but her mind worked faster than her pulse.
She had seen something rare tonight.
Raw power was common in Slaughter City. Bloodlust was common. But discipline — that cold control — married to enjoyment? That was not common. That was terrifying.
And she could not deny the truth growing louder in her chest: she wanted to understand it.
She clenched her fists. Fool. Curiosity will chain you.
Yet her feet followed anyway.
Kuangren reached the gate leading back into the city's belly. He paused, looking down at his sword. His thumb traced the jagged edge, reopening the cut he had made earlier. Blood welled, bright against the darkness.
He lifted it to his mouth, sucking the wound, tasting himself again. A ritual. A reminder.
The crowd murmured uneasily. Some whispered that he was cursed, that he drank his own blood for strength. Others whispered that he was no man at all, but something else wearing a human skin.
Kuangren heard them. His lips twitched upward, faintly. He enjoyed their fear.
Then he vanished into the shadows beyond the gate.
Zhu Zhuqing waited until the crowd dispersed before slipping after him. Her steps were silent, measured. The torches faded behind her, replaced by the suffocating dark of Slaughter City's alleys.
Somewhere ahead, his heavy footfalls echoed — steady, unhurried.
She kept her distance, her feline senses stretched to their limits. Every creak of wood, every drip of water, every whisper of vermin against stone was cataloged and ignored. Only his movements mattered.
But as she followed, her thoughts betrayed her discipline.
What am I doing?
She should have left. She should have walked away, found another path, hidden herself until her family's chains loosened.
Instead, she was here, tailing a boy who killed as if it were prayer.
She gritted her teeth.
Not a boy. A monster.
And yet, when she recalled the look in his eyes — calm, unwavering — a different word whispered back.
Truth.
At length, Kuangren stopped. They were in a narrow alley lit only by a sputtering torch, its flame bending weakly in the damp air.
He turned his head slightly.
"Still watching."
The words weren't shouted. They were spoken low, like a simple fact, but they cut sharper than a blade.
Zhu Zhuqing's breath caught. She had been flawless in her movements. She had made no sound. Yet he had known.
Again.
Her pride burned, but her instincts screamed louder. She slipped into view, stepping from the shadows with deliberate grace. Her hood fell back, revealing her sharp eyes, her feline pupils narrowing against the dim light.
"Yes," she said simply.
Kuangren turned fully, his crimson gaze locking onto her. His hair clung to his shoulders, still wet with blood, and in that flickering torchlight he looked less like a man and more like something sculpted from violence itself.
"Why?"
The same question as before. A single word, heavy with weight.
Zhu Zhuqing held his gaze. She wanted to say to measure you again, but that answer no longer felt enough. Not after what she had seen tonight.
"To understand."
Kuangren's lips curved, faintly. Not a grin. Not mockery. Something subtler, darker.
"Careful, cat. Understanding is sharper than killing. And it cuts deeper."
For a long moment, they stood in the alley, torchlight flickering between them. The city's noise had faded, leaving only the drip of water and the quiet thrum of two hearts.
Zhu Zhuqing felt it then — the dangerous pull of his presence, the reflection he warned her of. And she hated that a part of her wanted to see more.
Finally, Kuangren turned, continuing deeper into the dark.
"If you want to understand, then keep watching. But don't look away when the mirror shows you your own face."
Zhu Zhuqing's breath caught. Her claws flexed unconsciously.
And yet, when he vanished into the shadows, she followed.