On the Arena

Before the Zhao Family ancestral hall, the bluestone square had been splashed with clean water. The damp patches had yet to dry, gleaming a dark, wet blue-green.

The arena stood a foot high and measured three zhang on each side. Thick blackwood posts, each as wide as a bowl, stood at its four corners. The dents of varying depths on them had all been left by past Small Competitions.

People packed both sides of the square.

The young disciples stood in rows by branch, dressed in indigo training clothes. No one spoke; even their coughs were stifled. The air was stretched taut.

Five large ebony chairs stood in a row on the viewing platform. The family head, Zhao Kunshan, sat in the center with his eyes closed, turning two green jade gallstones in his hand. Two clan elders sat on either side of him, their hair and beards white, their gazes sharp as eagles'.

Li Tui stood among the spectators on the east side of the arena. His position was off to the side, but the view was clear.

His gaze swept across the viewing platform.

Zhao Kunshan still had his eyes closed. The Third Clan Elder on his left tapped the armrest absently with his fingers. The Fifth Clan Elder on his right turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on Zhao Wen at the end of the disciples' line.

Zhao Wen wore old clothes washed nearly white, his head lowered. Li Tui noticed that his shoulders were trembling slightly—not with fear, but with a shiver like a beast's, straining under its final restraint before it pounced.

The bell rang.

Three deep peals of bronze rolled across the square. A black-robed steward climbed onto the arena, carrying a brass tube filled with bamboo lots.

"Draw lots!"

The disciples stepped forward in turn. No one spoke; only the soft clatter of bamboo slips broke the silence.

Zhao Wen drew "seven."

Zhao Hao drew "twenty-three."

Zhao Yuanchong... Li Tui looked toward the front of the main family's line. Zhao Yuanchong had just finished drawing and was looking down at his bamboo slip. He was too far away to make out the number, but the fingers gripping the slip were pale with a bluish tinge.

"First match: Zhao Wen versus Zhao Wu!"

Two branch disciples leaped onto the arena and clasped their fists to one another. The bell rang again, and they crashed together. Their punches and kicks came carefully, by the book, while only scattered cheers rose from the crowd.

Li Tui closed his eyes and sank his awareness into his body.

At his chest, the Blood Bodhi was throbbing. Its rhythm was steady, but every beat carried a faint, yearning tremor.

It was hungry.

Hungry for the blood surging through the young bodies on the arena, their taut muscles, the vitality spilling out with every collision.

"Fifth match: Zhao Ming versus Zhao Liang!"

"Sixth match: Zhao Qing versus Zhao Shi!"

One match followed another. Some disciples came away with bruised faces, some tumbled off the arena, and some were carried down with twisted ankles. The clan elders on the viewing platform nodded now and then, but most of the time their faces remained expressionless.

Until—

"Seventh match: Zhao Wen versus Zhao Jian!"

A faint stir rippled through the crowd.

Zhao Wen stepped out from the end of the line. He didn't leap onto the arena, but climbed the steps one by one. His steps were steady, but Li Tui saw his hands hanging at his sides, knuckles cracking as he clenched them.

His opponent, Zhao Jian, was a stocky youth who practiced the Iron Arm Technique. His arms were twice as thick as normal, and his skin was a dull bronze. When Zhao Jian saw Zhao Wen step onto the arena, he grinned and clasped his fists. "Brother Wen, please—"

Before he could finish saying "instruct me,"

Zhao Wen moved.

No opening stance, no probing move. He didn't even wait for the bell. Like a mad bull with a pierced vein, he hurled himself at Zhao Jian!

"You!" Zhao Jian's expression changed. He hurriedly raised his arms to block.

A dull crash rang out. Zhao Wen's right shoulder slammed squarely into Zhao Jian's crossed arms. Zhao Jian grunted and stumbled back three steps, the arena boards groaning beneath him.

A sharp crack sounded from Zhao Wen's own shoulder blade, and all color drained from his face.

But he acted as if he couldn't feel the pain.

The instant he drove Zhao Jian back, he pressed in close. His left hand curled into a hook and shot straight for Zhao Jian's throat! Zhao Jian hastily turned his head. The claw grazed his neck, tearing three bloody gashes across it.

Flesh peeled back, and beads of blood spattered across the arena.

Gasps rose from below.

This wasn't a bout. It was a fight to the death!

Furious and alarmed, Zhao Jian let out a low growl. The muscles in his arms bulged as he swept them at Zhao Wen's ribs with Iron Lock Across the River. If that blow landed squarely, it would break at least two or three ribs.

Zhao Wen neither dodged nor retreated.

Instead, he charged into the sweeping blow, lunging forward and locking both arms tightly around Zhao Jian's waist. Then he slammed his head forward!

A muffled crack as his forehead struck Zhao Jian's nose.

Zhao Jian screamed. Blood sprayed from his nose, and his vision went black. Zhao Wen seized the moment, lifted him bodily, and slammed him hard into the arena floor!

Zhao Jian hit the boards back-first, dust billowing up around him. Before he could catch his breath, Zhao Wen's knee was already pressing down on him, pinning his throat.

"Y-yield..." Zhao Jian forced the broken words out of his throat.

Zhao Wen didn't let go at once.

He knelt atop Zhao Jian with his head bowed, his fringe falling over his eyes. Li Tui saw his back heaving violently, his shoulders trembling even harder than they had before he stepped onto the arena. Even the knee pressed against Zhao Jian's throat was shaking faintly.

Three full breaths passed.

Only when the black-robed steward said solemnly, "The match is decided,"

did Zhao Wen finally loosen his knee, as though his soul had been pulled from him. He swayed to his feet. His left shoulder hung at an unnatural angle, and his forehead was a bruised purple, smeared with Zhao Jian's blood across half his face.

Yet he stood straight. As he turned and walked off the arena, he didn't spare Zhao Jian on the ground a glance.

The viewing platform was utterly silent.

At last, family head Zhao Kunshan opened his eyes. He watched Zhao Wen's retreating back, his expression unreadable, but the jade gallstones in his hand had stopped turning.

The Third Clan Elder's brows furrowed tightly. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Li Tui closed his eyes.

At the very instant Zhao Wen broke Zhao Jian's nose and blood sprayed everywhere,

the Blood Bodhi at Li Tui's chest suddenly contracted!

Then came a violent throbbing unlike anything before, fast as pounding drums and deep as muffled thunder. Every contraction and expansion tugged at Li Tui's heartbeat.

The Blood Bodhi's reaction was even more ferocious to the blood qi spilling from Zhao Wen.

Li Tui could clearly feel the thing embedded deep in his flesh throbbing with a spasmodic force. Its searing heat pierced through skin and flesh, burning his chest until it hurt.

It was like a starving beast that had caught the scent of blood, rampaging inside his body and yearning to burst free, to pounce on the fresh, living flesh so close at hand.

The sudden, nearly uncontrollable frenzy made Li Tui's breath catch.

He snapped his eyes open, his five fingers unconsciously clamping around the wooden railing before him until his knuckles turned white.

This vile thing... its reaction to Zhao Wen's flesh and blood was far too strange.