Frost Cloud King, Luo Yun

The man let out a shrill scream, his short blade slipping from his hand as he stumbled back two steps.

He stared at his right hand, now missing two fingers, as blood gushed from the stumps, refusing to clot.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something more.

The Moon Eclipse Sword had already pierced his throat.

The man's eyes widened as he looked at the child who barely reached his waist. His mouth worked, emitting a garbled sound before his body collapsed heavily, slamming into the ground.

The entire tavern fell into a deathly silence.

Luo Yun pulled out the Moon Eclipse Sword, shook the blood from the blade, turned around, and hopped back onto the high stool.

"Another glass of water," he said to One-Eyed Dragon.

One-Eyed Dragon's face turned deathly pale with fear. He hurriedly and tremblingly turned to scoop a glass of water, placing it gently before Luo Yun; this time, not a single drop spilled.

Luo Yun picked up the glass and took a sip.

Luo Yun finished the water and set the glass gently on the bar, producing a faint clink.

"How do I leave this place?"

One-Eyed Dragon's hand, which had been wiping a glass, paused. He looked up, eyeing Luo Yun with his single eye.

"The Slaughter Arena," One-Eyed Dragon's voice dropped low, as if he were speaking of some unspeakable secret.

"They say you need to achieve a hundred consecutive victories. One hundred matches, and you can't lose a single one. Once you finish the hundredth match, the King of Slaughter will personally open the Hell Road. If you walk out of the Hell Road, you can leave this godforsaken place."

He paused, then added, "But in these past hundred years, I've heard that fewer than five people have successfully walked out, and no one has ever seen what the King of Slaughter looks like when he opens the Hell Road."

Luo Yun jumped off the stool and walked out of the tavern without looking back.

"Hey..." One-Eyed Dragon called out from behind, "You're just going like that?"

Luo Yun didn't answer, pushing open the tavern door.

The Slaughter Arena.

Luo Yun stood before a massive structure, looking up at the iron gate that towered three times his height.

The iron gate was black, covered in rust and dried bloodstains. On either side of the gate frame stood a stone pillar, appearing as if they were drenched in fresh blood.

Luo Yun pushed open the iron gate and walked inside.

The space within was far larger than it appeared from the outside.

It was a circular arena surrounded by tiers of stands, all packed with people.

Some wore ornate robes, others were shirtless and covered in scars; some held heavily made-up women in their arms, while others clutched Bloody Marys, cursing at the arena floor with drunken, bleary eyes.

In the center of the arena was a sunken platform, its floor paved with dark red stone slabs, the crevices embedded with bloodstains of unknown age.

The edge of the platform was lined with iron railings, from which various weapons hung.

Luo Yun walked to the arena's registration desk, where a short, fat man sat behind a dilapidated wooden table piled with a stack of crumpled parchment.

The man wore a filthy gray robe, his hair plastered to his scalp with grease, and the rolls of fat on his face squeezed his eyes into two thin slits.

He was still dozing, saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the parchment.

"I want to sign up." Luo Yun's voice was quiet, yet perfectly clear.

The fat man jolted awake, the saliva stretching into a glistening thread that dangled from his lip before snapping.

He looked up, wiped his mouth, and squinted his two slits toward the source of the voice.

Then, he froze.

A child.

A six-year-old, clean-looking child standing before him, asking to sign up for the Slaughter Arena.

Am I still dreaming?

The fat man's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he hadn't fully woken up yet.

But the child was still there, right in front of him, those eyes watching him calmly, devoid of any extra emotion.

"You..." the fat man's voice sounded as if it were being squeezed from his throat, "you want to sign up?"

"Yes."

"Do you even know what this place is?"

"The Slaughter Arena."

"Then you?"

"Arrange it for me." Luo Yun cut him off, his tone as indifferent as if he were buying groceries at the market.

The fat man hung his mouth open, at a loss for words.

He had worked here for twenty years and had seen all sorts of people.

Cold-blooded demons, desperate gamblers, soul masters gone mad, and lunatics seeking death.

But never had he seen a six-year-old child come to throw his life away of his own accord.

Just then, a commotion erupted from the side.

"That's him!" a shrill voice rang out from the direction of the stands. "That's him! The brat who killed Scar Brother on the street just now!"

"Right, right! It's him! Pierced his throat with one sword strike! I saw it with my own eyes!"

"And the Scarface from the Blood Moon tavern, he killed him too! One strike, just one strike!"

"You didn't see it, he didn't even blink when he killed him!"

The voices grew louder and more numerous, gathering like a rolling snowball.

People in the stands turned their heads one after another, their gazes falling upon Luo Yun—some surprised, some curious, some scrutinizing, and others carrying a near-pathological excitement.

In Slaughter City, the strong are always the center of attention.

The short, stout man's expression shifted.

He re-examined the child before him, then looked at the reactions of the people in the stands, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

Then he lowered his head, pulled a relatively clean sheet from the pile of parchment on the table, picked up a blunt-tipped quill, and licked the nib.

"Name." His voice had become much more respectful.

Luo Yun thought for a moment.

His father was called King Frost Extreme, so he would be called...

"Frost Cloud King."

The stout man's quill tip froze.

King?

In Slaughter City, anyone who dared to use "King" as a title was either a madman or a true powerhouse.

The last person to use "King" as a title had died in the arena who knows how many years ago.

The stout man looked up at Luo Yun, wanting to say something, but upon seeing those eyes—so calm they held no ripples—he swallowed his words back down.

If this brat wanted to die, no one could stop him.

He scribbled "Frost Cloud King" crookedly on the paper and filled in a few other items.

Age, gender, martial soul type.

Then he flipped the paper over and pushed it toward Luo Yun.

"Press your thumbprint."

Luo Yun extended his thumb, dipped it into the pool of blood left by the man killed moments ago, and pressed it onto the parchment.

Beside the dark red print, the three characters for "Frost Cloud King" were exceptionally glaring in the dim light.

"Enter the arena in half an hour." The stout man put the parchment away. "Every match is a ten-person melee. The one who survives to the end wins."

Luo Yun nodded and turned to walk toward the waiting area at the edge of the arena.

Half an hour.

Luo Yun leaned against the iron railing of the waiting area, eyes closed, the Moon Eclipse Sword thrust into a crack in the stone by his feet, its purple-black glow like a lone lamp in the dark red environment.