The Black Market and the Blood Arena

The following evening, the ringing of anvils in Cast Iron Alley gradually died away.

Loa plunged the rough billhook he had just forged into a bucket of water, then turned and unfastened his leather apron. Bob was crouched in a corner, refining a dagger's edge with a fine file. Without looking up, he asked, "Why'd you stop?"

"Something to do. I'm heading out." Loa took his sword and a small bundle from a nail on the wall.

The second floor of the Red Coral tavern, in southern Fenlai City.

When Loa pushed open the creaking wooden door, a powerful mixture of cheap perfume, sweat, and some cloying incense struck him. The light was dim, the air murky. Several scantily dressed waitresses threaded between the crowded tables and chairs with drinks, their giggles mingling with the men's coarse language.

"Little brother, first time here? Want me to..." A heavily made-up woman swayed over to him.

Loa stepped aside to avoid her, swiftly scanning the room. In a corner by the window, a familiar figure sat flirting with a woman in his arms. It was Old Dao.

He walked over, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat down.

Old Dao raised his head and looked at him through drunken eyes. It took him two seconds to react. "Oh, Loa? How'd you find me here?" He patted the cheek of the woman in his arms. "Go on, pour our young friend a drink too."

"No need." Loa's voice was calm. "Old Dao, I want to ask you something."

Old Dao narrowed his eyes and studied Loa's expression, then chuckled and whispered a few words to the woman beside him. She pursed her lips and sashayed away.

"Go on. What's so urgent you came looking for me here?" Old Dao lifted his cup and took a gulp, his face still flushed with drink.

"Are there... any ways to make quick money in the city?" Loa got straight to the point.

"Quick money?" Old Dao grinned, revealing teeth yellowed by tobacco and alcohol. "Mercenary jobs-hunt rank 3 magical beasts, skin them, and take their cores. With luck, a single beast can earn you dozens of gold coins, but you'll be risking your life. Escorting valuables pays well, but you have to put up with the employer, and watch for trouble from inside and out. What, need money?"

"Yes." Loa offered no details, only looked at him. "Anything else? Something faster and more direct."

Old Dao set down his cup, leaned forward a little, and lowered his voice. "There actually is one. But... of the people who go there, half walk out, and half get carried out."

Loa's gaze shifted.

"The black market. The Deathmatch Arena." Old Dao enunciated each word. "Also called the 'Life-or-Death Platform' or the 'Blood Arena.' People fight to the death up on the platform, and people place bets below. Win one match, and you get at least ten gold coins. Consecutive wins double the prize. If you manage ten straight wins..." He licked his lips. "I hear there's a secret jackpot. Could be as much as a thousand gold coins."

"What are the rules?"

"Just one: only one person gets to leave the platform standing. Death or disability makes no difference." Old Dao stared at Loa. "The people in there are either desperate outlaws, people whose cultivation went wrong and who urgently need money for medicine to stay alive, or... freaks with extraordinary gifts who can take on several people at their own level. Inborn strength, incredible speed, monstrous toughness-I've seen them all. That fast sword of yours won't necessarily give you an edge in there."

Loa was silent. His fingers tapped lightly on the rough wooden tabletop.

"Thought it through?" Old Dao leaned back in his chair. "That place is no joke. I once saw a rank 4 warrior beaten to death in the arena by a fellow at the peak of rank 3 who could tear an ironhide boar apart with his bare hands. Seventeen or eighteen broken bones."

"...How do I get there?"

Old Dao watched him for a long while before finally sighing. "Tonight, behind the abandoned Old Waterwheel Mill in the south of the city, there's an inconspicuous wooden door beneath the third dead pagoda tree. Knock three long, two short. Someone will guide you in. Wear a black robe and a mask when you enter. Don't show your face, and don't talk too much. It's a mixed crowd in there, with every kind of shady character imaginable."

He took a half-used charcoal pencil from inside his clothes and swiftly sketched a simple map on the greasy tablecloth. "Remember, there's only one entrance, but seven or eight exits. I'll tell you the safest one: after the fight, win or lose, take the little door on the east side of the arena area. Follow the passage to the end, to a dead end piled with junk. Push open the third movable brick wall on your left. Behind it is a branch of the sewers. Follow the current for half a li, and you can climb out through the drain in Muddy Alley in the east of the city."

Loa carefully committed it to memory.

"One last warning." Old Dao stood and patted Loa's shoulder, his alcohol-laden breath washing against Loa's ear. "If things look bad, surrender and jump off the platform. It's humiliating, but better than losing your life. That place... doesn't care about rules. Only who lives and who dies."

That night, at the abandoned mill in the south of the city.

The night was dark, with only the torches on the distant city wall offering a little light. Loa wore a loose black cloak bought from a secondhand stall and a wooden mask painted with a hideous demonic face-the mask Old Dao had prepared for him beforehand.

At first glance, the wooden door beneath the third dead pagoda tree looked like a sealed wall. He knocked the code.

The door silently slid open a crack. A cloudy eye examined him from behind it, and a hoarse voice spoke. "Take off the mask."

Loa hesitated for an instant, then lifted the mask to his forehead, exposing the lower half of his face. The gaze behind the door lingered on his youthful jawline, seemingly a little surprised, but no further questions came.

"Go in. Straight ahead. Don't look around."

The door opened fully. Beyond it, a narrow stone staircase led downward. Dim yellow glowstone lamps were embedded in the walls, barely illuminating the outlines of the steps.

The staircase was long. After roughly a hundred steps, faint sounds of commotion reached him from ahead. He rounded a bend, and the space suddenly opened up.

It was a vast underground chamber, clearly converted from a natural cavern. In the center stood a circular stone platform five feet above the ground and twenty zhang across, enclosed on all sides by iron bars as thick as a man's arm. Its surface was dark red, soaked with who knew how much blood.

Below the platform, people packed the space. All wore cloaks of various colors and masks; age and sex could only be judged from their builds and the occasional exposed hand. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, cheap tobacco, and an indescribable frenzy.

"Kill him! Tear him apart!"

"Come on! I put thirty gold coins on you!"

"Useless bastard! Get up!"

Curses, roars, and hysterical screams mingled, almost lifting the cavern roof. Some people, having won money, laughed madly and tossed gold coins into the air; others had lost everything and slumped to the ground with vacant eyes. Still more stared fixedly at the platform with bloodshot eyes, waiting for the next bloody fight.

Human greed, madness, and brutality lay naked here, without the slightest disguise.

Loa took a deep breath, suppressed his discomfort, and scanned the area. Soon, he spotted a crude wooden desk on the west side of the arena. A lean man sat behind it, head lowered as he wrote something down.

Registration.

He squeezed through the crowd and approached. The man behind the desk raised his head. He wore a featureless gray-white mask, revealing only a pair of emotionless eyes.

"Signing up?" His voice was flat.

"Yes."

"Alias."

Loa paused. "Wild Wind."

The man wrote it in his register, then asked, "Rank?"

"Rank 3 warrior."

The man's pen stopped briefly. He looked up at Loa's figure beneath the cloak. "Rank 3... Thought this through? Even rank 4 fighters mostly come out as corpses here."

"I have."

The man stopped trying to dissuade him. "Entry fee, ten gold coins. Only one rule: at the end, only one person is allowed to remain standing on the platform. Death or disability makes no difference. One victory earns ten gold coins; for consecutive wins, the prize doubles with each additional match. Ten straight wins earns an extra grand prize. Surrendering or jumping off the platform counts as a defeat. No prize, no refund of the entry fee. You bear all responsibility for death, injury, or disability."

Ten gold coins. Loa's heart tightened. That was almost all the savings he currently had available. But he did not hesitate. He took a small purse from inside his clothes, counted out ten gold coins, and pushed them over.

The man took them, weighed them in his hand, and stowed them beneath the desk. "Wait. Your alias will be called when it's your turn."

Loa withdrew into the shadows nearby and quietly observed. On the platform, a fight had just ended. The winner was a short, stocky man wielding two short spears. A wound across his chest ran deep enough to expose bone, yet he still held up his opponent's bloody head and roared. Two black-clad men swiftly dragged away the loser's headless corpse, adding another fresh layer of blood to the dark red stone platform.

Loa watched the next few matches carefully. Just as Old Dao had said, the people here had tremendous practical fighting experience. Their attacks were vicious and direct, seeking not beauty, only lethality. He saw a rank 3 warrior withstand a full-strength blade strike from an opponent of the same rank and use the opening to snap the opponent's neck. He also saw a slight figure with astonishing speed whose dagger targeted the groin, throat, eye sockets, and other vital points.

But indeed, he saw no warriors above rank 5. The strongest was only at the peak of rank 4, a burly man wielding a heavy halberd who had already won seven consecutive matches and radiated ferocity.

About an hour later, another fight ended on the platform. The host-a man in flashy, tight-fitting clothes with a shrill voice-leaped onto the iron railing at the arena's edge and shouted through a voice-amplifying magic item:

"Everyone! Next, a new challenger will enter the arena! Let us welcome-alias 'Wild Wind'!"

Scattered boos and whistles rose from below. A new face usually meant unfamiliarity, and uncertainty too. The gamblers were unenthusiastic.

"And his opponent-" The host drew out his words. "Our renowned powerhouse, already on a four-match winning streak-'Skullcrusher'!"

"Roar!"

A deafening wave of cheers erupted. A huge figure emerged from the gate opposite. Nearly two meters tall, his body was a mass of knotted muscle. He wore only leather trousers, and a savage tattoo covered his bald head. In each hand he carried a heavy, short-handled warhammer, its head covered in spikes. The ground seemed to tremble slightly as he walked.

Skullcrusher raised both hammers and roared skyward, driving the crowd into an even greater frenzy.

The off-platform betting opened. "Place your bets! 'Wild Wind' against 'Skullcrusher'! Odds-ten to one!"

Almost everyone surged toward Skullcrusher's betting counter. On Loa's side, only a handful of masked gamblers with feverish eyes placed small wagers, hoping for an upset.

Loa silently approached his own betting counter and wagered all ten of his remaining gold coins on "Wild Wind."

"Sure?" The bet taker glanced at him.

"Sure."

"The gates are open! Both fighters-enter the arena!"

Loa checked his mask's straps one last time, tightened his grip on his iron sword, and walked toward the gate on the arena's east side. The iron bars rose, and he stepped into the blood-reeking enclosure.

Across from him, Skullcrusher already stood in the center, his hammers hanging loosely at his sides. Through the slits of his mask, his huge eyes brazenly examined Loa's relatively "scrawny" frame. He grinned, exposing stark white teeth.

The host leaped out of the arena and shouted, "Deathmatch-begin!"

Skullcrusher moved! Without testing his opponent or wasting words, his enormous body burst forward with speed at odds with his size. His hammers came one after the other, hurtling toward Loa with heavy rushes of air! Simple, brutal, overwhelming force!

Loa did not meet them head-on. Shifting his feet, he drifted backward like willow fluff in the wind. A heavy hammer brushed his hem and slammed into the stone platform, spraying shattered stone!

When the blow missed, Skullcrusher roared and swung both hammers in full arcs, raining down blows like a furious storm! Every strike carried immense weight, cutting off broad swaths of space in which to dodge. He clearly had abundant fighting experience. He intended to use absolute strength and reach to force Loa into a direct clash or exhaust his stamina.

Loa wove through the hammer swings with nimble footwork, narrowly avoiding each attack. He was observing, adapting to his opponent's rhythm, searching for that fleeting opening.

Boos rose on all sides. Clearly, the audience preferred head-on clashes with flesh and blood flying, not this "dodging game."

"Coward! Is running all you can do?"

"Skullcrusher, smash him!"

Skullcrusher seemed angered too. His assault grew fiercer, and a sweeping hammer strike forced Loa back again. This time, however, Loa retreated half a foot less than before.

That half-foot difference caused an almost imperceptible hesitation in Skullcrusher's next overhead blow-he had to adjust his center of gravity to turn the sweep into a downward strike.

And that instant of hesitation was exactly what Loa had been waiting for!

His figure, which had been passively evading all this time, abruptly switched from retreat to advance! Rather than charging straight in, he turned sideways and slid into the blind spot of the two hammers' attacks! At the same time, the iron sword that had hung at his side suddenly shot out like a venomous snake that had long lain in wait!

It was not a long-charged Gale Thrust, but a Rapid Thrust that devoted seventy percent of his strength to speed and left only thirty percent for penetration!

Hiss, hiss, hiss!

Three cold points flashed almost simultaneously beneath Skullcrusher's right ribs, slightly exposed as he swung his hammer! The sword tip did not penetrate deeply, but it was blindingly fast! Unerringly precise!

Skullcrusher grunted in pain. His left hammer instinctively came back to guard, while the momentum of his right carried it down, leaving him slightly off balance.

A cold glint flashed in Loa's eyes. Now!

Still sliding, he had already circled to Skullcrusher's left. The qi he had been storing in his dantian surged into his right arm! His iron sword traced a strange arc from below, aimed at the armpit exposed as Skullcrusher raised his left arm to guard!

This strike no longer had the lightness of Rapid Thrust, but was a variation of Gale Thrust-sacrificing some straight-line speed for greater force and angle on the upward strike!

Squelch!

The blade pierced precisely through a gap in the armor, entering at the armpit where the muscular defenses were relatively weak, and sank to the hilt! Then he twisted it savagely!

"Aaaargh!"

Skullcrusher let out an earthshaking scream. His left arm instantly went limp, and the heavy warhammer slipped from his hand and hit the ground. His right eye turned bloodshot in an instant. Throwing all caution aside, he swept his remaining hammer toward Loa's nearby head in a strike meant to take them both down!

But Loa had already pulled his sword free and retreated, narrowly evading that furious blow. Agony and exertion made Skullcrusher stagger.

An opening!

Loa gave his opponent no more chance to breathe. He stepped forward, twisted his waist, and concentrated all his strength and qi at his sword tip for the simplest, most lethal straight thrust!

Gale Thrust!

The sword flashed like lightning, slipping through the gap in Skullcrusher's hastily raised right arm and plunging precisely into his throat.

His roar cut off abruptly.

The massive body stood rigid for an instant, then crashed to the ground. Blood gushed from the wounds in his throat and armpit, quickly spreading a darker stain across the dark red stone platform.

Below the platform, there was deathly silence.

Then an even wilder uproar erupted-frantic screams from those who had backed the upset, furious curses from those who had lost, and, above all, cries of disbelief.

"The winner-'Wild Wind'!" The host's shrill voice rang out again, carrying a barely perceptible hint of surprise.

Loa stood on the platform, breathing a little heavily. Beneath the mask, his face was expressionless. He bent down and pulled a small leather pouch from Skullcrusher's waist-it contained the winner's token and a few personal belongings. Such were the arena's rules: the spoils belonged to the victor.

Without so much as a glance at the frenzied crowd, he walked straight toward the little door on the east side.

Two black-clad men came forward and began clearing the arena with practiced efficiency.

Beyond the little door lay a dim passage. Following Old Dao's instructions, Loa strode to the end, pushed open the movable brick wall, and jumped into the musty sewer. Cold sewage rose to his calves.

He removed his bloodstained mask and threw it deep into the sewage. Then he took off his bloodied cloak, bundled it up, and stuffed it into a crack between stones. Only then did he use the faint light from the distant exit to get his bearings and head upstream, against the current.

Behind him, the underground clamor and bloodshed were gradually swallowed by the sound of flowing water.

When he climbed out of the drain in Muddy Alley, the night breeze brushed his face with the slight coolness of a summer night. Loa looked up and took a deep breath of relatively clean air.

Inside his clothes lay Skullcrusher's leather pouch and the heavy purse he had collected at the betting counter: one hundred and ten gold coins in total, winnings and stake included.

One hundred and ten gold coins. Added to his previous savings of twenty-nine, it far exceeded his fifty-gold-coin goal for purchasing the General Principles of Battle-qi.

But there was little joy on Loa's face.

He clenched his fist, sensing the qi that had faintly seethed under the pressure of life and death during the battle, as though it might break through something at any moment.

The barrier to rank 4 warrior seemed clearer now, and thinner too.

He looked back at the dark, deep sewer entrance behind him, like the maw of an enormous beast.

Then he turned and strode toward Cast Iron Alley.

In the darkness, the young man's back was straight, his steps firm.

The road was still long. But that first bloodstained footprint had already been made.