Part F – Chains in the Silence
The courtyard was empty when Zhu Zhuqing finally slipped from her perch, but the air still clung to his presence. Heavy. Metallic. Like the aftermath of a storm.
She moved lightly, soundless, her steps measured across broken stone. Her nose caught the lingering trace of oil and blood on the ground where he had sat, her eyes tracing the faint depressions left by his knees. The stripped cloths, darkened with stains, lay discarded.
Not discarded, she realized. Left.
He could have taken them, burned them, hidden them. But no — he left them there deliberately. A mark. A reminder. A piece of ritual cast into the world like a scar.
Her fingers brushed one strip. The fabric was rough, torn from something once stronger. She brought it close enough to smell: the iron tang of blood had soaked through. Not just his enemies'. His own.
Her hand trembled faintly before she forced it still. She dropped the cloth.
Then she followed.
Kuangren's path was easy to trace.
Few men in Slaughter City walked with such unconcern. His footsteps were not hurried, not cautious. They pressed deep into the grime, heel-first, like a man who owned the ground he walked on.
Zhu Zhuqing stayed ten paces behind, cloaked in shadow, her breathing steady. Her heart should not have been racing, but it was. Her mind repeated the same quiet warning — this is foolish, this is dangerous, he is not yours to approach — yet her feet disobeyed.
She told herself it was observation, nothing more. That she was studying him the way one studies prey before striking.
But a deeper voice whispered: No. You're studying him the way one studies a storm, hoping to learn when it will break.
Kuangren entered another narrow corridor. Torches lined the walls here, though most had burned low. The shadows stretched long and jagged, broken only by the crimson flare of his eyes.
Zhu Zhuqing pressed to the side, letting her body slip behind columns, her gaze fixed on him.
He stopped suddenly.
Her breath caught.
Kuangren stood still in the center of the corridor, head tilting slightly. Not toward her, not yet, but as if he had caught something — a vibration, a whisper of presence.
Her muscles coiled, ready to melt into deeper shadow.
Then, slowly, he turned his head.
His eyes found her instantly.
For the first time, Zhu Zhuqing understood why the others whispered "Crimson Madman."
Those eyes were not just red. They were focused, cutting, a predator's gaze honed by violence. And yet, they did not widen in surprise at finding her. They did not harden in threat.
They simply regarded.
The silence stretched.
She could flee. She knew she could. Her speed surpassed his in short bursts, and the maze of the city favored her agility. One leap, one twist, and she would vanish.
But she did not move.
And neither did he.
Kuangren broke the stillness first, not with words, but with motion.
He resumed walking, slow, deliberate, his boots striking stone. Step by step, he closed the distance between them.
Zhu Zhuqing's claws slipped from her fingers, a reflex she could not stop. Her stance shifted low, prepared. She told herself it was defense. But some part of her knew it was also anticipation.
When he reached her, he stopped only a pace away.
Up close, his height became oppressive — two meters towering, shoulders broad, chest marked with dried streaks of battle. The sword on his back caught the dim light, its serrated edge still wet.
The smell of iron clung to him like a second skin.
And still he said nothing.
Zhu Zhuqing's lips parted before she could stop herself.
"…Why?"
The word slipped out, soft, sharp. Too small a question for what burned in her chest, yet the only one she could give voice to.
His head tilted faintly, as if weighing the sound.
"Why what?" His voice was deep, roughened by disuse. The first time she had heard it.
Her throat tightened. She forced the rest.
"The ritual. The… prayers. Talking to the blade."
Silence.
Then — a sound low in his chest. Not laughter. Not mockery. A faint growl, almost a hum.
"It listens," he said simply.
The words struck harder than if he had shouted. They carried no doubt, no irony.
Zhu Zhuqing's breath caught. "…You believe that?"
His crimson eyes bore into hers. "I don't need belief. Only blood. Steel remembers."
Something twisted inside her chest. She wanted to recoil, to dismiss him, to scoff. But her body betrayed her — she leaned in, fraction by fraction, as though pulled forward by his conviction.
Steel remembers.
The thought clung to her. She imagined her own claws, her own silent kills, the bodies left behind in her family's shadow. Did her weapons remember too? Did her hands?
Her pulse quickened.
She forced herself to look away, breaking the thread.
"You're insane," she whispered.
"Yes." His answer came without hesitation, without shame. "But not broken."
The silence between them deepened, heavier now, not hostile but thick with weight.
Zhu Zhuqing realized her claws had retracted, her stance had loosened. Her instincts told her to run, but her body had betrayed her again — not retreating, but lingering.
And he — he did not press closer, did not threaten. He simply stood there, gaze unflinching, waiting.
As if he knew she would not walk away.
At last, Zhu Zhuqing forced herself to move. She stepped sideways, slipping past him, her shoulder brushing the faintest edge of his arm. The contact sent a jolt through her — not of fear, but something sharper, more dangerous.
She did not look back as she continued down the corridor.
But she knew, without question, that his eyes followed her until the shadows claimed her.
Kuangren watched her go, the corner of his mouth twitching. Not a smile, not quite. But close.
"She listens too," he murmured.
Then he turned, vanishing into the dark.