Part C – The Killing Fields
The Killing Fields were never silent. Even when no matches were taking place, the great arena seemed to hum with the echoes of death — a low, ceaseless vibration in the bones of the stone. By the time Gu Kuangren stepped through the iron gate, his crimson eyes burning, the galleries above were already full. Word of his last victory had spread too quickly.
Tonight, the people wanted blood.
And he was going to give them more than blood.
Zhu Zhuqing stood in the shadow of the gate's pillar, half-hidden, watching him stride into the open arena. Her amber eyes flicked over the crowd: drunkards, killers, gamblers, all shouting Kuangren's name with a mixture of awe and fear. The new "mad demon," they called him. The giant orphan with crimson eyes who fought like he was born to slaughter.
She hugged her arms around herself, unsettled. That phantom… she had seen it in the clearing. She knew it was real, terrible, dangerous. But the crowd — they didn't know. They only thought Kuangren was a brutal, towering boy with a talent for killing.
They had no idea what lurked behind his shadow.
The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium. "Tonight, a special match! Our rising demon of the arena, the crimson-eyed madman himself… Gu Kuangren!"
A roar erupted. Men and women stamped their feet, pounded their fists, shouted his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
"And facing him, three challengers! The Dagger Wolves!"
From the opposite gate, three men stalked into the arena, their movements sharp and synchronized. Each bore a short blade, curved and glimmering with cold light. Their armor was mismatched but functional, their eyes predatory. Known assassins, brothers in blood.
Kuangren's lips curved faintly as he watched them fan out, circling.
Three against one. Perfect.
The bell tolled.
The wolves struck first.
One blurred low, skimming along the cracked ground with inhuman speed. Another vaulted overhead, his dagger flashing down toward Kuangren's neck. The third came in from the side, blade aimed at his ribs.
The crowd screamed for blood.
But Kuangren… didn't move.
His sword remained at his side. His eyes glowed.
And behind him, for the first time in the arena, the phantom stirred.
It erupted from him in silence, vast and towering, black against the torchlight. The crowd gasped as the giant silhouette flared into being, indistinct but powerful, its fists clenched like mountains ready to fall.
The first wolf's blade scraped along Kuangren's arm — and stopped cold, jarred by an unseen resistance. At the same instant, the phantom's massive hand swung down.
The assassin had no time to dodge.
The ground shattered as the phantom's strike connected, crushing him flat. Dust and blood exploded outward in a violent spray.
The audience howled, half in terror, half in ecstasy.
The second wolf, mid-leap, faltered in the air. His dagger glanced against Kuangren's crimson hair, but before he could land, Kuangren's hand shot up.
The phantom mirrored the motion, its giant hand grasping the assassin out of the air like a child plucking a toy.
The man screamed as the phantom squeezed. His bones cracked loud enough for the crowd to hear. Then Kuangren clenched his own fist, and the phantom finished it — the body crushed, dangling limp before being hurled aside.
Only one wolf remained.
He skidded to a halt, his blade trembling, eyes wide. His brothers lay broken in the dirt. The phantom loomed over Kuangren, blotting out the torchlight, its aura flooding the arena with a suffocating weight.
The assassin tried to back away. He stumbled.
"Fight," Kuangren said softly, his voice carrying over the arena with eerie clarity. "Show me if you have more than fear."
The crowd went wild.
The assassin screamed, charging desperately, blades flashing in a blur of steel. He slashed at Kuangren's chest, his throat, his side, trying to cut, to pierce, to do anything.
Kuangren didn't dodge. He didn't parry. He simply let the blades strike — and with each movement, the phantom's massive hands batted the attacks aside like swatting flies.
The assassin sobbed, his last blade raised high —
And Kuangren moved.
He thrust his hand forward. The phantom mirrored him, its colossal fist slamming into the man's chest. The assassin's body snapped back, spine breaking with a sickening crack, blood spraying into the dirt. He didn't rise again.
Silence fell.
The phantom's shadow loomed over Kuangren, taller than the arena walls, fists dripping with blood that wasn't real yet seemed all too real to the crowd's eyes.
And then —
The silence shattered.
The audience roared, shrieking and howling with animal glee. Coins rained down. Weapons clanged against the railings. They screamed his name, screamed for more, screamed for the crimson-eyed demon who had torn through three killers like children.
Gu Kuangren stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, crimson eyes bright with hunger.
He felt the phantom settle into him again, pulsing, waiting. Not gone. Never gone. Always there.
At the gate's shadow, Zhu Zhuqing's claws had slid out without her realizing. She stood frozen, breath shallow, her amber eyes locked on Kuangren's towering figure.
She had thought she understood what he was becoming. She had been wrong.
He wasn't just strong. He wasn't just dangerous.
He was becoming something else entirely.
And that terrified her.
And thrilled her.
Both at once.
Kuangren raised his sword at last, pointing it at the roaring audience. His voice carried sharp and cold.
"Bring me more."
The phantom flared behind him, its silhouette glaring down on the crowd like a god of war.
The audience screamed.
The Arena Master, watching from his private balcony, narrowed his eyes. His lips curved into something sharp.
"Good," he murmured. "Very good."