The iron gates creaked open, and Jin was pushed into the blinding light of morning.
Before him stretched a vast arena—stone walls rising high, banners of the clan fluttering in the breeze, and an ocean of faces crowding the stands. Nobles in embroidered robes, generals with hard eyes, merchants and courtiers—all gathered, their voices roaring like thunder. It was less a trial and more a festival, a public spectacle prepared for blood.
Jin squinted, then grinned. "Ohhh…" he mouthed silently, eyes sparkling with childlike awe. "This is fancy."
He tilted his head back, gawking at the sheer size of it. "Is this really just a clan? Looks more like a city."
The guards beside him scowled as though he were mocking them, but Jin was far too fascinated to notice. He turned in circles, taking in the carvings etched into the ring's floor, the array of torches placed around the perimeter, and the booming energy of the crowd.
From above, in the high pavilion where the clan leader and honored guests sat, Lord Bi'an leaned lazily against the railing. Beside him stood Shen, straight-backed and attentive.
Lord Bi'an gestured with his chin toward the ring. "Why is your friend looking like a child at a lantern festival?"
Shen exhaled slowly. "…I wouldn't say I know him well enough to explain. But, my Lord—if I may—he's the most unserious man I've ever met."
Lord Bi'an chuckled. "Unserious men are the ones who cause the most trouble."
Down below, Jin was led into the square platform at the arena's center. His wrists and ankles were still chained, though that didn't seem to bother him. He swayed them like jewelry, humming to himself.
The guards knelt to unbind him. Jin leaned down, whispering conspiratorially.
"Careful, careful—don't bruise the wrists. Takes years to get skin this delicate, you know."
One of the guards nearly snapped the key in irritation.
As the chains fell away, Jin stretched dramatically, fixing his hair and brushing invisible dust from his clothes. He pivoted in place, scanning the crowd—then froze.
There she was.
The nobleman's daughter from Tianliu. The one whose father had accused him of theft when it had actually been Xiǎoyè's fault. Her gaze burned with disdain.
Their eyes locked.
Jin immediately puffed out his cheeks and mouthed insults like a child throwing a tantrum.
"Thief-daughter! Rotten radish! Smelly cabbage face!"
The girl, not understanding his words but recognizing his expression, shot to her feet and shouted something sharp and cutting.
Jin gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Did that dirty thief just call me a cabbage?! You cabbage! You moldy turnip! You dung beetle with pearls for eyes!"
The crowd fell into stunned silence. Nobles exchanged looks of utter bewilderment.
In the pavilion, Lord Bi'an leaned toward Shen. "What did he just say?"
Shen wiped sweat from his brow. "…My Lord… you don't want to know."
Even the translator at Jin's side pinched the bridge of his nose in shame.
Before the comedic bickering could escalate further, a sudden hush fell across the arena.
The Clan Leader had stood.
His voice carried like rolling thunder, amplified by the great bronze bell of Zin. Every word vibrated through stone and bone alike.
"Six rounds."
The stands went silent, as if the air itself feared to move.
"The rules are simple: each round has its stipulation. Weapons, grappling, strikes—sometimes no blows to the face. Yet there is only one path to victory: cast your opponent out of the ring… or lay them upon their back."
The translator relayed the words to Jin.
Jin laughed, carefree. "Ohhh, that's it? Easy. Easiest thing I've ever—"
Then he saw her.
Dragged into the light of the arena, chains biting into her wrists, face bruised but eyes still sharp—Ruan.
She staggered, yet she stood proud.
Something inside Jin shifted. His grin froze. His shoulders stiffened.
And for just one instant—the world drowned in silence.
A suffocating aura surged from Jin's body, thick as blood, sharp as a blade at the throat.
It swept across the arena like a tide, pressing on lungs and bones. Veterans flinched. Horses panicked. In the pavilion, both Lord Bi'an and the Clan Leader's eyes narrowed—because they felt it. A bloodlust so potent it cracked the air itself.
Then, as suddenly as it came, it was gone.
Jin was back to brushing his hair and smiling as though nothing had happened.
The translator coughed, face pale, and leaned close. "For every ten strikes you take… they will hurt her." He gestured toward Ruan. "She must fight her own fight. But… should you wish to save her, you may challenge the Clan Leader directly."
The crowd murmured. Laughed. To challenge the Clan Leader? Madness.
But Jin—Jin threw back his head and laughed. He laughed until he doubled over, rolling across the ring floor, tears at the corners of his eyes.
Xiǎoyè, perched high upon a torch post, meowed in glee, tail flailing.
Outside the arena, the horse stood tethered and dead-eyed, sighing as though regretting every decision that had led it here.
When Jin finally sat up, wiping his eyes, he grinned wide enough to show every tooth.
"Oh, you poor pigs. You've already lost."
He spread his arms wide, addressing the nobles, the generals, the onlookers, and finally the Clan Leader himself.
"I'll save her. I'll crush your toys. And then…" His grin sharpened. "I'll challenge you."
The translator hesitated, then relayed the words.
A collective gasp ran through the crowd. No one dared breathe.
And then—unthinkable—the Clan Leader laughed.
A low rumble, deep as an earthquake, rolling across the arena. Nobles turned pale. Guards bowed their heads. No one had ever heard the man laugh before.
"Very well," the Clan Leader said, voice booming. "I accept."
The translator stammered, "H-he accepts."
Jin's laughter joined the echo, mocking and fearless.
"Good!" he roared. "Then bring me my first opponent. And their little stipulation. Let's make this fun."
The crowd erupted in chaos, voices rising like a storm.
Xiǎoyè's eyes gleamed from above. Its master was about to tear down this stage and dance upon it.
And somewhere deep in her bruised body, Ruan clenched her fists, fighting back a smile.
The arena of six rounds had begun.