Part D – The Master's Invitation
The roar of the arena still thundered in his ears when Gu Kuangren was led down the narrow, torch-lit corridors. The blood-soaked dirt clung to his boots, flakes falling with each step. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim, making the guards around him shift uncomfortably as though his gaze alone might slit their throats.
They did not lead him to the cells.
Instead, the iron-bound path twisted upward, climbing toward the hidden tiers above the arena. The air grew cleaner here, less choked with sweat and blood, more perfumed — faint incense masked the stench. Kuangren's steps slowed slightly. He could already sense what this was.
Not a punishment. Not yet.
A summons.
The guards halted at a tall black door, its carvings elaborate, grotesque scenes of demons feasting on men etched deep into the wood. They pushed it open with effort.
"Enter," one said, eyes averted.
Kuangren didn't hesitate.
The chamber beyond was vast, lit not by torches but by tall braziers that spat blue flame. The air shimmered faintly, heat and power mingling until it made the skin prickle.
At the far end sat the Master.
Clad in robes of deep crimson lined with gold, his mask gleamed under the blue fire — a sharp, expressionless faceplate of steel, painted with streaks of black like tears. His hands, long and pale, rested on the arms of an obsidian throne.
Around him lounged courtesans and enforcers, men and women draped in silks, their laughter low and sharp as knives. Some looked at Kuangren with open hunger, others with contempt.
The Master lifted his hand. The noise stilled.
"Gu Kuangren," he said, his voice smooth, rich, carrying across the chamber like velvet pulled over steel. "Our crimson demon. You've made quite the spectacle tonight."
Kuangren stopped halfway across the room, the Seven Kill Sword still at his side, his long black hair stirring faintly in the braziers' breath.
He said nothing.
The silence stretched.
The courtesans exchanged glances, whispers rising again. Insolence. Defiance. Did he not know who sat before him?
But the Master only chuckled softly. "I see. You believe silence is strength. You are not wrong. Words are cheap in this city." His masked face tilted, the black streaks catching the firelight. "But sometimes silence is arrogance. And arrogance… gets one killed."
His last word rang sharp in the air.
Kuangren's lips curved faintly. "If arrogance gets one killed," he said, his voice low, iron scraping stone, "then why are you still alive?"
The chamber froze.
Gasps hissed from the courtesans. A guard's hand went to his blade. The air grew taut as bowstring.
But the Master only laughed. The sound was not mirthful, but sharp, deliberate, like a blade striking glass.
"Good," the Master said. "Very good. You are bold enough to stand before me without bowing. Bold enough to speak without groveling. Yes… I see why the city howls your name tonight."
The Master rose slowly, each motion precise. His height was unremarkable, but his presence filled the chamber. He stepped down from his dais, robes whispering across the stone, until he stood not three paces from Kuangren.
"And yet," he murmured, tilting his head, "what was that thing you brought into my arena tonight?"
The words struck sharp. The courtesans leaned forward, their eyes gleaming. The guards stiffened.
Kuangren's crimson eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
"You see," the Master went on, circling him now, hands clasped behind his back, "Slaughter City has endured centuries because it is predictable. The arena is predictable. Men fight. Men kill. Men die. The cycle pleases the people, and the blood pleases… higher powers."
He paused, his masked face inches from Kuangren's ear. "But what you brought tonight? That was not predictable. That was not… ordinary."
Kuangren turned his head, crimson gaze boring into the eyeholes of the mask. "And you are afraid of what you do not understand."
Another sharp intake of breath from the courtesans. One laughed nervously, then went silent when the Master's hand twitched.
But again, the Master did not strike. Instead, he tilted his head back and laughed, louder this time, arms spreading.
"Afraid? No, boy. I am intrigued." His masked face snapped back toward Kuangren, voice dropping into steel. "And intrigue can keep you alive. Or see you flayed open for study."
The words hung heavy. Kuangren's grip on the Seven Kill Sword tightened ever so slightly.
The phantom stirred in his chest. He could feel it pushing at the edges of his skin, hungry to erupt, to answer this challenge. He breathed once, steady, forcing it back down. Not yet.
"You summoned me," Kuangren said at last. "Say what you want, and be done."
The Master's laughter softened into something almost pleasant. "Direct. Good." He returned to his throne, sinking back with feline grace. "What I want is simple. You will continue to fight in my arena. You will continue to slaughter for my crowds. But… you will also learn restraint. Control. Your power is mine as long as you stand within these walls. Do you understand?"
Kuangren lifted his gaze slowly. His crimson eyes burned like coals.
"No," he said.
The chamber shook with murmurs. The Master stilled.
"No?"
"I don't fight for you," Kuangren said, each word a blade. "I don't kill for your coins, or your crowds, or your masks. I kill because it is mine. The moment you think you own me…" His crimson eyes narrowed into slits. "You'll learn otherwise."
The silence was deafening. The courtesans looked between one another, terrified, thrilled, confused.
And then — slowly — the Master began to clap.
A soft, deliberate sound. Clap. Clap. Clap.
"How delightful," the Master purred. "A beast with teeth. Do you know how long it has been since anyone dared speak to me so? Since anyone walked into this chamber and told me no?"
His masked face tilted, unreadable. "Perhaps you will be the death of me one day. Until then… amuse me."
He leaned back, his hands folding once more. "Go, Gu Kuangren. Kill. Burn. Break. And if you survive long enough… we shall see who devours who."
The guards moved to open the door again.
Kuangren didn't bow. Didn't thank. Didn't even acknowledge the man on the throne. He simply turned, black hair trailing like a shadow, crimson eyes gleaming as he strode out.
The Master watched him go, silent until the door shut behind him.
Only then did he speak, voice low, sharp, and edged with anticipation.
"Magnificent," he murmured. "A true demon is born."