The morning sunlight was as harsh and relentless as ever, though today it felt slightly different to Ya.
"Who's that? So small?""Looks like they came from the High District.""High District? You've got to be joking. The High District is full of top-tier gladiators—how could a kid like that come from there?""I swear, I saw it with my own eyes."
A murmur of chatter rose among the crowd, whispers darting from one person to another as they all speculated about the unusually small child before them.
For the first time, Ya had stepped out of the shadowed confines of his cell into the scorching sun. The heat felt uncomfortable, sweat poured from his body only to evaporate instantly. After only a few steps, dizziness began to cloud his vision.
Today marked Ya's first official day of martial training—not learning advanced techniques from Tianren, but practicing the basics under Yale's supervision. Naturally, this had been Tianren's idea.
"Oh? Looks like Tianren is serious about this," Emo muttered from the office window, observing Ya as he slowly wove into the crowd. A peculiar smile crossed his face. In his hand was a sheet of parchment—the report Aohu had given him.
"Tianren, Tianren… giving me such a surprise so early in the morning. If I were scared stiff, you'd answer to the heavens for it." Emo chuckled, crumpling the parchment and tossing it into the trash.
"Boss, about the posters…" a subordinate hesitantly began."Oh, that. Hmm… Aohu was being considerate, but I think we need to rearrange things. Tianren, Tianren… seems it's finally time to show our faces." Emo's mood was unusually good today. He poured himself a cup from a cherished bottle of liquor, sipped delicately, savoring it, and murmured to himself, "It's been so many years… I wonder how he's holding up now. Honestly, I'm a little excited to find out."
"Eh, Tianren." From inside the cell, Shusheng finally broke the silence. Since last night, no one in the cell block had slept—except for Tianren, who remained curled in the straw, while everyone else had spent the night sitting upright.
Tianren did not answer.
"What's really going on in your head?" Shusheng hesitated before asking. Every ear in the cell strained to catch the answer—everyone wanted to know, yet no one dared ask. Even Jinjiao, usually reckless, remained silently observing.
Tianren held a unique place in Kuangxue, distinct from all other gladiators. Rumor had it that when Kuangxue was still in its infancy, Emo, along with a few loyal subordinates including Luoyi, had been conquering the land. Even then, Tianren was Emo's gladiator. The rise of Kuangxue owed much to him. His legend had begun when he single-handedly defeated twenty-five top gladiators in the Western Grand Arena, becoming a storied figure of that generation.
Power commanded respect, and the strong were feared.
Still, Tianren remained silent in the face of Shusheng's question.
Shusheng studied him for a long moment before sighing. He had stayed in Kuangxue mainly for Tianren, yet he had never truly understood him—not his identity, his thoughts, nor his true strength. Complete ignorance.
"A wall that can never be pierced," Shusheng said, a note of disappointment in his voice.
"Actually…" Tianren's voice finally cut through the air, drawing everyone's attention. "I'm just bored… looking for something to do. I'm just an ordinary person. Not everything I do needs a reason."
Shusheng furrowed his brow. "Maybe you should clean up your corner and then take a bath.""Ha, right, sorry. I'll sleep a bit first, then handle it tonight." Tianren scratched his head awkwardly, like a foolish child.
The prisoner dragged a bedding mat into the cell, muttering to himself, "They said I sleep here starting today… where's the space?"
"Here, here." Tianren waved.
"No way. I won't sleep with someone dirtier than me—it's disgusting." The prisoner marched toward Shusheng's cell.
"Don't come over." Shusheng frowned, adjusting his pristine robes. He preferred cleanliness, after all.
"Oh? Not allowed? But your place is empty," the prisoner said, scratching his head."Empty doesn't matter. That's not for you. There's another vacant cell—pick one of those." Shusheng's tone was sharper than when he had addressed Tianren.
"Hey, why don't you come to mine?" Jinjiao finally spoke up."No." The prisoner eyed the massive axe Jinjiao never let go of. "I don't want to live somewhere that keeps me on edge."
The other gladiators nodded. Jinjiao's temper and massive weapon made him intimidating.
"Bah, no guts." Jinjiao flopped onto his bed, giving up.
"I hate being watched all the time," the prisoner muttered, then pushed open the iron bars and tossed himself onto the floor of an empty cell. Sleep claimed him immediately.
"Ha! Personality, I like it," Jinjiao laughed excitedly."Clearly not my type," Shusheng shook his head with resignation.
The sun struck the sand relentlessly, heat rising in shimmering waves. Yale swung his whip across the training ground, bellowing orders as two squads ran laps—older children ahead, younger behind. Ya was in the latter group.
Beside him, a taller girl with copper-toned skin and brown hair hid her face behind her bangs. A strip of gauze clung to her shoulder, stained with blood seeping slowly through torn bandages. Her name was Maysa—stubborn and dangerous, a nine-year-old accustomed to killing.
In front of Ya was a burly boy named Shaqwe, eleven, large enough to seem unnatural, bare-chested with metal wrist guards and a thick belt. A disciple of Kuangxue's prodigy Peng Mai, he led the younger squad.
"Move it! No slacking, you little brat! Don't care who you are—my whip doesn't discriminate. Keep up if you want to avoid it!" Yale's whip cracked against the dirt, leaving deep grooves.
Most children trembled at the sound; only a few remained unaffected.
Shaqwe glared at Ya, sweat soaking his thin frame, clothes clinging weakly, making him seem frail among the more solid children. Yale treated Ya differently—he had been warned instead of whipped outright—a fact noted by all, breeding quiet envy.
Shaqwe's irritation deepened. Ya drew attention away from him, a blow to his pride. He was not naturally patient; Ya's presence grated on him.
Ya ignored everything, pushing through the grueling heat as his vision blurred. Two hours of jogging was basic training—endurance, stamina, and the forging of willpower, vital for the arena.
"Move, move!" Yale's whip snapped against stragglers. "Worthless trash, pick up the pace!"
The punished children nearly collapsed but knew better than to give in. They fought to keep pace.
Shaqwe looked at Ya again. Sweat dripped from his scattered hair, eyes half-lidded, face streaked with dust and saltwater marks.
"Tch," Shaqwe muttered. Ya should've been spent long ago—but still he ran, relentless.
"What's he made of?" Shaqwe stomped the ground. "Is this kid for real?"
Yale cracked his whip across the path, marking the final stretch. "One more lap, then half an hour rest."
For the recruits, half an hour was precious. The squads picked up pace. Finally, they reached the finish; Ya collapsed in a secluded spot, barely able to breathe, wishing even that could stop.
Yale strolled to the shade with his men, sweat rolling down his back despite not running. A cup of iced tea was handed to him. He sipped, leaning back in relief.
"Boss, look over there." A subordinate pointed.
"Move. Don't bother me. Can't you feel the heat?" Yale shoved him aside, squinting toward the commotion.
Shaqwe and several others approached Ya, murmuring. "Troublesome little brats," Yale muttered. Two squads, all disciples of renowned gladiators, but he didn't want unnecessary hassle—especially with Tianren involved.
"Forget it. Kids' business, let them be." Yale exhaled, pressing a cool towel to his face.
"Hey, what's your name?" Shaqwe kicked the still-prone Ya.
No response.
"Are you deaf?" Shaqwe yelped, kicking toward Ya's head.
"Thud." Ya rolled upright, eyes meeting Shaqwe's, still gasping.
"What are you staring at?" Shaqwe spat, kicking at Ya's stomach.
"Ugh!" Ya twitched violently, a guttural sound escaping him.
"Still not satisfied?" a boy spat, kicking toward Ya.
"Kill!" Ya's mind seemed struck by some force. He leapt and struck back, knocking the boy back half a meter before landing perfectly. Blood streaked where his nails grazed.
Screams rang out; the arena fell silent. Shaqwe, enraged, charged.
"Kill!" Ya responded instinctively, moving with terrifying speed. Shaqwe couldn't keep up.
"Stop!" Yale's whip sliced between them but struck another boy instead.
"Yahan?" Yale exclaimed as a muscular youth blocked the path, lifting Shaqwe with one hand.
Yahan looked at Ya, sizing him up. Sculpted like a living statue, lion-like eyes, tribal tattoos, bone necklace, clad only in rough leather shorts and boots.
"Why?" Shaqwe shouted, aware of the gap between them."Handled," Yahan said, glancing at Ya before moving toward the assembling squads.
"A monster," Yale muttered, witnessing Yahan absorb an attack without flinching.
"Alright, what happened between you two?" Yale called.
"Yo, Yahan! What's with the face?" a cheerful boy greeted."Missed," Yahan replied calmly, noting his hand."Missed?" The boy froze."Hand passed through. Nothing caught." Yahan's voice was calm."Through? Ghost?" The boy laughed nervously."Maybe… a ghost." Yahan lifted his gaze, silent afterward.
Shaqwe reluctantly turned away, muttering.
"Little ones, no slacking," Yale bellowed, resuming training.
Emo, observing, asked a tall, lean subordinate, "Your thoughts on the kid?""Innate talent… beyond imagination. If it were me, I'd be fascinated too. Tianren is blessed," the man—Harus, one of Emo's Four Kings—grinned admiringly.
"Enough with the flattery," Emo grimaced. "Change your habits someday.""When you quit smoking, boss." Harus smirked."Die. First, collect those debts." Emo kicked him out.
Soon after, Aohu entered with a massive poster."All set?" Emo asked, slightly surprised."Preliminary draft ready, boss. Needs your approval," Aohu said, spreading it out. The poster would hang prominently in Kuangxue Arena for the upcoming exhibition—a major event in months of preparation.
The image was striking: an elegant, serious-looking man in white robes, holding a long sword—beauty and blood, the arena's eternal themes, yet here refined into a singular heroic figure.
"Beautiful… are the invitations ready?" Emo studied it with delight."Yes, just awaiting your signature." Aohu's tone remained indifferent.
"All the names?" Emo pressed."Everyone of standing in the Bermu Plains. Others, if time allows, will be notified," Aohu replied.
"Good. I trust you." Emo relaxed into his chair. "Things will proceed smoothly. Fab will be pleased."
"By the way, Aohu, thoughts on ghosts?" Emo asked, mood buoyant."Necromancer-summoned ones? Bad news," Aohu frowned."No, I mean their traits." Emo chuckled, exhaling smoke."Ephemeral… fleeting. Why the sudden interest?""Just seems I saw one today… white." Emo nodded, lighting a cigar."White ghost?" Aohu raised an eyebrow."Yes. Do you think I could quit smoking?""Impossible." Aohu replied promptly."Not so fast… I am your boss, after all. Consider my feelings, not like Luoyi's lot." Emo muttered.