On the Arena

In front of the Zhao Family ancestral hall, the bluestone plaza had been splashed with clean water. The water stains had yet to dry, casting a damp, dark cyan hue.

The stage was one foot high, thirty feet long and wide, with ebony posts as thick as bowls standing at the four corners. The varying depths of dents on the posts were all left over from previous small-scale competitions.

People stood packed on both sides of the plaza.

The young disciples lined up according to their family branches, wearing indigo training uniforms. No one spoke, and even coughs were suppressed. The air was pulled deathly tight.

On the viewing platform, five black sandalwood chairs were lined up in a row. In the center sat the family head, Zhao Kunshan, eyes closed to conserve his energy, his hands rotating two green jade balls. To his left and right sat two clan elders each, their hair and beards gray, their eyes as sharp as hawks.

Li Tui stood in the viewing area on the east side of the stage. The position was off to the side, but the view was wide.

His gaze swept across the viewing platform.

Zhao Kunshan still had his eyes closed. The Third Clan Elder on his left was unconsciously tapping his fingers on the armrest. The Fifth Clan Elder on his right tilted his head slightly, his gaze landing on the end of the disciple queue, where Zhao Wen stood.

Zhao Wen wore old, washed-out clothes, his head lowered. Li Tui noticed that his shoulders were trembling slightly—not from fear, but from a kind of extreme suppression, like the shivering of a wild beast before it gathers its strength.

The bell rang.

Three deep, resonant bronze bell tolls echoed out. A black-robed deacon walked onto the stage, holding a brass bamboo slip canister.

"Draw lots!"

The disciples stepped forward one by one. No one spoke; there was only the light clatter of bamboo slips colliding.

Zhao Wen drew "seven."

Zhao Hao was "twenty-three."

Zhao Yuanchong... Li Tui looked toward the front of the main family queue. Zhao Yuanchong had just finished drawing and was looking down at his bamboo slip. From this distance, the number was unclear, but the knuckles gripping the slip were white to the point of turning blue.

"First match, Zhao Wen against Zhao Wu!"

Two collateral disciples leaped onto the stage and cupped their fists at each other. The bell rang again, and the two collided. Fists and kicks were exchanged with cautious, rule-abiding precision; there were only sporadic cheers from below the stage.

Li Tui closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into his body.

In his chest, the Blood Bodhi was pulsing. The rhythm was steady, but every beat carried a subtle, craving-like throb.

It was hungry.

It craved the blood surging in the young bodies on the stage, the tensed muscles, and the vitality released during their collisions.

"Fifth match, Zhao Ming against Zhao Liang!"

"Sixth match, Zhao Qing against Zhao Shi!"

Match after match. Some ended up bruised and swollen, some were knocked off the stage, and some were helped down with sprained ankles. On the viewing platform, the clan elders nodded occasionally, but for the most part, they remained expressionless.

Until.

"Seventh match, Zhao Wen, against Zhao Jian!"

A very slight commotion stirred in the crowd.

Zhao Wen walked out from the end of the queue. He did not leap onto the stage, but instead walked up the steps one by one. His pace was steady, but Li Tui saw that the knuckles of the hands hanging at his sides were clenching until they cracked.

His opponent, Zhao Jian, was a short, sturdy youth who practiced the Iron Arm Technique. His two arms were a circle thicker, his skin glowing with a dull, bronze color. Seeing Zhao Wen come onto the stage, Zhao Jian grinned and cupped his fists, saying, "Brother Wen, please offer your guid—"

The word "ance" had not yet left his lips.

Zhao Wen moved.

There was no opening stance, no probing, and he did not even wait for the bell to ring. He was like a mad bull with a punctured artery, slamming his entire body toward Zhao Jian!

"You!" Zhao Jian's expression changed, and he hurriedly crossed his arms to block.

A dull, thudding impact exploded. Zhao Wen's right shoulder slammed solidly into Zhao Jian's crossed arms. Zhao Jian let out a muffled groan and retreated three steps, the wooden planks of the stage creaking.

Zhao Wen's own shoulder blade emitted a crisp crack, and the color drained from his face instantly.

Yet, he seemed unable to feel the pain.

The moment he knocked Zhao Jian back, he followed up in close quarters, his left hand's fingers hooked like claws, stabbing straight for Zhao Jian's throat! Zhao Jian hurriedly tilted his head, and those claws grazed his neck, tearing open three bloody gashes.

Flesh curled back, and beads of blood splattered onto the stage.

Gasps erupted from below.

This was not a martial arts match; this was a fight to the death!

Zhao Jian was both shocked and furious. With a low roar, the muscles in his arms bulged, and he swept toward Zhao Wen's waist and ribs with an Iron Lock Across the River. If that had landed, at least two or three ribs would have been broken.

Zhao Wen did not dodge or evade.

He actually met the sweep head-on, lunging forward with his whole body, wrapping his arms tightly around Zhao Jian's waist, and slamming his head forward!

A dull thud echoed as his forehead hit the bridge of a nose.

Zhao Jian screamed, blood spraying from his nose, his vision going black. Zhao Wen seized the opportunity to hoist him up and slam him fiercely onto the stage floor!

Zhao Jian landed on his back, dust rising. Before he could catch his breath, Zhao Wen's knee was already pressing down, pinning his Adam's apple.

"I... I concede..." Zhao Jian squeezed the broken words from his throat.

Zhao Wen did not let go immediately.

He knelt on top of Zhao Jian, head lowered, his bangs falling to cover his eyes. Li Tui saw his spine heaving violently, his shoulders trembling even more intensely than before he had stepped onto the stage. The knee pressing against Zhao Jian's throat was also shivering slightly.

A full three seconds passed.

Until the black-robed deacon spoke in a deep voice: "The victor is decided."

Only then did Zhao Wen, as if his soul had been drained away, slowly loosen his knees and sway as he stood up. His left shoulder hung at an unnatural angle, and his forehead was bruised and purple, smeared with Zhao Jian's nosebleed across half his face.

Yet he stood very straight, and as he turned to descend the stage, he did not spare a single glance at Zhao Jian on the ground.

On the viewing platform, there was absolute silence.

The clan head Zhao Kunshan finally opened his eyes. He watched Zhao Wen's retreating back with an expressionless face, but the jade balls he had been rotating in his hand came to a halt.

The Third Clan Elder furrowed his brows tightly; his lips moved, but he made no sound.

Li Tui closed his eyes.

The very moment Zhao Wen had shattered Zhao Jian's nose bridge and blood had sprayed out, the Blood Bodhi in his chest had suddenly contracted!

Following that came an unprecedented, violent pulsation, as fast as a war drum and as heavy as muffled thunder. Every contraction and expansion tugged at Li Tui's own heartbeat.

The Blood Bodhi's reaction was even more ferocious toward the aura of blood radiating from Zhao Wen.

Li Tui could clearly feel that foreign object, deeply embedded in his flesh, pulsing with a force that bordered on a spasm. Its scalding temperature penetrated his skin and muscle, burning his chest with pain.

It was like a starving beast that had caught the scent of prey, crashing wildly inside his body, desperate to break through his flesh and pounce upon the fresh, living blood so close at hand.

This sudden, nearly uncontrollable riot caused Li Tui's breath to hitch.

He snapped his eyes open, his fingers unconsciously gripping the wooden railing in front of him until his knuckles turned white.

This cursed thing... its reaction to Zhao Wen's flesh was far too abnormal.

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