The air in Slaughter City was forever thick with the stench of blood and rot, as if a thousand years of blood had soaked into a putrid carcass that clung slimily to every corner.
The dim crystal lamps could illuminate only the few feet ahead. The longer passageways disappeared into dense darkness, hiding countless malice and murderous intent.
Tang San had lost track of how long he had been here.
In this place, there was no sun or moon, and time had lost all meaning. The only measure was the ever-rising number of victories in the Hell Slaughter Arena.
From a novice first stepping into this hell to his current streak of ninety-three consecutive wins, every step he took had been over mountains of corpses and seas of blood. He had fought his way out, one life-or-death battle after another.
No one knew that the boy who had never been defeated in the Hell Slaughter Arena, code-named "Asura King," was walking a tightrope every day.
The iron rule of Slaughter City was that all Soul Skills were sealed. One could fight only with the body's strength and instinct.
Here, the Martial Souls and Soul Rings that Spirit Masters took pride in were no more than decorations. Past glory and status were worthless; only the most ruthless, those best able to adapt to the darkness, could survive.
Tang San's days were monotonous to the point of asceticism. Every day, he did only two things: enter the Hell Slaughter Arena, use every means at his disposal to kill his opponents, and walk out alive; then return to his cramped, damp, chilly stone room, break down the Tang Sect Secret Arts to their very essence, refine them over and over, and comprehend the true meaning of killing intent.
There were no hot meals,