Soul Battle

Xue Qinghe looked into Li Hanche's eyes. In those clear black-and-white eyes, there was no impulsiveness, no hot-blooded fervor—only a pure desire to grow stronger.

He took a token from the drawer beneath his desk and pushed it to the edge of the table.

"Take this to the Great Soul Fighting Arena. They'll arrange an identity for you. Don't use your real name."

Li Hanche stepped forward, took the token, and tucked it into his robes.

"Thanks, Big Brother."

He turned and walked toward the door.

"Don't die in there."

Xue Qinghe's voice came from behind him.

Li Hanche raised a hand in a casual wave, taking it as his response.

Great Soul Fighting Arena

The main hall was far noisier than he had imagined.

All kinds of people moved through the hall: Soul Masters in leather armor with blades and swords at their waists; richly dressed gamblers surrounded by bodyguards; heavily made-up waitresses weaving through the crowd with drinks in hand; and others whose identities were impossible to discern.

Li Hanche walked up to the counter.

Behind it stood a woman in her early twenties. She was pretty, dressed in a well-tailored uniform.

She glanced down at him, and her professional poise kept her from immediately showing impatience.

She opened her mouth, the words "Little boy, you've come to the wrong place" already at the tip of her tongue.

Li Hanche tossed a token onto the counter. The receptionist's gaze fell upon it—the emblem of the Heaven Dou Imperial Family, and the seal of Crown Prince Xue Qinghe.

Her pupils abruptly constricted. She swallowed those words back down, and in the blink of an eye, the perfunctory expression on her face shifted into one of respect.

"Please wait a moment."

She picked up the token and inspected it carefully. Once she confirmed it was not forged, she returned it with both hands, then turned and hurried toward the corridor at the side of the hall.

Her high heels clicked against the marble floor, sharp and rhythmic.

Li Hanche tucked the token back into his robes and waited where he stood.

Before long, a middle-aged man hurried over with the receptionist.

He wore a dark robe embroidered with the silver sword emblem of the Great Soul Fighting Arena. Slightly plump, he had a fine layer of sweat beading on his forehead, whether from heat or nerves, no one could tell.

His gaze swept over the hall. Failing to find anyone who looked like the Crown Prince's envoy, he finally lowered his head and saw the child standing before the counter.

"This little—"

He paused, forcibly swallowing the last two words of "little boy."

"What are your instructions?"

Li Hanche looked at him.

"Arrange an identity for me. I want to fight Soul Battles."

The manager's lips parted slightly.

He looked down at the child, who did not even reach his waist, then at the token in Li Hanche's hand.

A six-year-old child who had only just awakened his martial soul, coming to the Great Soul Fighting Arena to fight Soul Battles—and one sent by His Highness the Crown Prince.

Who would believe that if they heard it?

But the token was genuine. To one who bore the Crown Prince's token, it was as though the Crown Prince himself had arrived. He was merely a minor manager of a Soul Fighting Arena; he had no right to refuse.

"Call me Little Brother Needs More Practice. Put down any martial soul you like. A spear will do."

The manager's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice slightly tight.

"This little... Young Master, are you certain? The Great Soul Fighting Arena will do its best to keep the matches under control, but blades and spears have no eyes. If something should happen—"

"Make it quick."

Li Hanche cut him off.

"Don't worry. If anything happens, you won't be held responsible."

After thinking for a moment, he added, "Just arrange opponents in their twenties or thirties for me."

The manager's lips trembled.

Twenties. Thirties.

A six-year-old child, and the first thing he asked for was opponents at the thirtieth rank.

He had a bellyful of things he wanted to say—about the rules of the Soul Fighting Arena, about the dangers posed by the gap in Soul Master ranks, about his responsibility as manager for the safety of every match.

But Li Hanche's eyes made him swallow every word.

Those clear black-and-white eyes held only a certainty that no one could refute.

He had seen far too many young people coming to fight Soul Battles for the first time. Their eyes were either filled with the excitement of surging hot blood, courage they were forcing themselves to muster, or a hunger for fame and prize money.

But none of that was in the child's eyes. His gaze was like a pool of frozen water—calm, cold, and bottomless.

The person in charge lowered his head.

"I'll make the arrangements right away."

The lounge was located on the second floor of the Soul Fighting Arena.

Pushing open the window gave a commanding view of the entire fighting platform.

These private boxes were usually reserved for nobles and high-ranking Soul Masters, but today, the person in charge handed over the key without a word.

Li Hanche stood before the window and took something from his soul tool ring.

A mask.

On the way here, he had paused at a street stall piled with all kinds of masks—Soul Beast designs, mythological figures, exaggerated ghost faces.

His gaze swept over the gaudy masks before finally settling on a ghost mask.

Its lines were utterly simple, yet together they gave off an indescribably eerie feeling.

He paid three copper coins and tried the mask on. It fit perfectly.

The stall owner was a skinny old man. When he took the coins, he gave Li Hanche an extra look and muttered, "Kids these days all like this stuff," but Li Hanche ignored him.

The announcer on the fighting platform was already warming up the crowd.

He was a middle-aged man in a brightly colored formal suit, his hair slicked back to a shine. His voice was so booming that it carried throughout the stands without any amplification.

He was introducing the first one-on-one Soul Fight of the night.

"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's first one-on-one Soul Fight will be between newcomer Little Brother Needs More Practice..."

He glanced down at the list in his hand, making sure he had not misread that name, which did not look like a proper name no matter how he saw it.

"...and Iron Fist Rook!"

Scattered applause and whistles rose from the stands.

A newcomer meant no record, no ranking, no spectacle. The audience's enthusiasm was clearly low.

Turning sideways, the announcer gestured toward the entrance tunnel.

"Let us welcome... Iron Fist Rook!"

A broad, powerfully built man emerged from the entrance tunnel. He was in his early twenties, with a heavy frame, wearing a sleeveless leather cuirass that exposed two arms knotted with muscle.

His fists were especially eye-catching. Their backs were flat, thick calluses crusting his knuckles, and each hand was a full size larger than an ordinary person's.

The light of martial soul possession flared around him, and his hands became coated in an iron-gray metallic sheen.

A few cheers rose from the stands. He had already fought several matches at this level and had gained a modest reputation.

Rook walked to the center of the fighting platform, folded his arms across his chest, and lifted his chin slightly, savoring the scattered cheers.

The announcer turned to the other side, raising his voice another pitch.

"Let us welcome... Little Brother Needs More Practice!"

A small figure emerged from the entrance tunnel on the other side.

Wearing a plain white ghost mask, he walked at an unhurried pace to the edge of the fighting platform, then stepped up onto it.

The top of his head barely reached Rook's waist.

The stands fell silent for an instant. Then they erupted.

"Are you kidding? That's a child!"

"Has the Grand Soul Fighting Arena got water in its brain? They're letting a little kid onto the stage?"

"I paid money to watch this?"

"That Rook can turn this little brat into a meat patty with one punch!"

"Refund us!"