Part E – The Demon's Ritual
The alleys of Slaughter City swallowed sound.
Not the distant roars of celebration, not the moans of broken men, not even the faint clink of dropped coin carried here. The shadows drank everything, leaving behind only silence, as if the stones themselves disapproved of noise.
And into that silence walked Gu Kuangren.
His boots tracked blood. The sword in his hand gleamed wet, the serrated edges catching what little torchlight remained. The world had gone soft and muted, but he walked with the same deliberate pace as before — neither hurried nor languid, but inevitable.
He came to a forgotten courtyard. Broken walls hunched inward, a collapsed shrine to some nameless spirit stood crumbling at the center. The air here was stagnant, damp, yet thick with a copper tang that had seeped deep into the stone long ago.
Kuangren stopped. His eyes swept the ruin once, then lowered to his blade.
The first step of the ritual began.
He knelt, laying the jagged sword across his knees. He drew in a deep breath, slow and even, his chest expanding against the torn fabric of his tunic. He let it out through parted lips, a faint hiss that cut the silence.
Then he reached to his waist, unfastening a pouch. From it, he drew cloths already stained dark, strips of hide, and a small bone flask sealed with wax.
One by one, he placed them before him, precise, ordered. No gesture wasted.
Zhu Zhuqing watched from the broken arch of the courtyard's entrance.
Her heartbeat was steady now, her breathing controlled, but her eyes never left him.
What was he doing?
To most, the fight had ended in the square. The victor leaves, celebrates, or hides. But Kuangren had not celebrated, had not vanished to drink, had not even sought coin or rest. He had come here, to this forgotten ruin, to… prepare?
No. Not prepare. Cleanse.
Her feline senses sharpened. She recognized the discipline in his movements. It was the discipline of someone who killed not in madness but in order.
And that frightened her far more than if he had been raving.
Kuangren began with his hands. He unwrapped the strips of cloth, tearing them into thinner lengths. His fingers, though still stained red, were steady, deliberate. He tied one strip around his left hand, knotting it tight until the cloth darkened with absorbed blood. Then the right.
Not to clean. To bind. To seal in what remained.
Next came the blade.
He lifted it slowly, reverently, as if it were not a weapon but a companion. The serrated steel glistened with the lives it had claimed. He tilted it, letting the last drops fall onto the earth.
Then he uncorked the flask. A bitter, acrid smell rose — not wine, not poison, but oil mixed with herbs, sharp enough to sting the nose.
He poured it over the blade. The steel hissed faintly, steam curling upward as oil mingled with blood. The smell thickened — sharp, pungent, cleansing in its cruelty.
He wiped the blade with the remaining cloths, not scrubbing, but drawing the fabric slowly down its length. Every stroke was measured. Every stroke removed what clung, what festered.
By the fifth stroke, the blade shone again. Not clean. Never clean. But renewed.
Kuangren's lips parted.
"Drink deep. Sleep sharp."
The words were barely whispered, but Zhu Zhuqing heard them. A prayer? A vow? She could not tell.
For the first time since entering the city, Zhu Zhuqing felt her throat tighten.
He was not just washing blood from steel. He was feeding it, honoring it, speaking to it.
And the worst part — the most dangerous part — was that he meant it.
This was no superstition, no nervous tic. This was devotion.
Kuangren placed the blade beside him once more. He lifted his hand to his chest, pressing palm flat against his heartbeat. Slow. Steady.
His eyes slid closed.
And he began to breathe.
Not shallow, not quick, but deep. His ribs expanded, collapsed. Each inhale brought a faint shudder through his frame, each exhale whispered low.
Minutes passed. His breathing never faltered. His presence never wavered.
The courtyard seemed to shrink around him, as if the silence deepened, dragged into rhythm with his heart.
Zhu Zhuqing felt her own breath hitching unconsciously, matching his cadence without meaning to. She tore her gaze away, forcing herself to remember her own body, her own control. But when her eyes returned to him, the effect pulled at her again, subtle, relentless.
He doesn't meditate to find peace, she realized. He meditates to chain the storm inside him.
That was the ritual. Not worship. Not superstition. Control.
At last, Kuangren opened his eyes.
They glowed in the dim light, crimson still burning though the square's torches were far behind them.
He stood, sheathing the sword across his back with smooth finality. The strips of cloth remained tied to his hands, crimson-stained bindings that looked less like bandages and more like vows.
He turned his head, gaze settling on the broken shrine.
Once, it might have been a god of mercy, or of justice. Its face was gone now, eroded by time and blood.
Kuangren tilted his head faintly, as if considering it. Then he spoke.
"You've been forgotten. That's mercy."
He stepped past it, back into the dark.
Zhu Zhuqing stayed hidden until the echo of his footsteps faded. Her claws had extended without her realizing, her pulse racing again. She drew them back with effort, her breath slow.
Her thoughts tangled, but one truth remained clear:
He was not killing blindly. He was not chaos made flesh.
He was order. His own kind of order. Ruthless, unflinching, ritual-bound.
And if she followed him long enough, if she looked too closely, she feared she might begin to understand.
The thought made her stomach twist.
But when she finally moved, when her feet carried her back into the night, she knew she would not leave the trail.
Not yet.