The first thing Gu Kuangren remembered about Slaughter City was the smell.
It was not the sharp tang of fresh blood, but something deeper—thick, metallic, cloying, the kind of rot that seeped into one's lungs until every breath felt like a mouthful of rust. The air itself was heavy, saturated with death. Here, beneath the eternal night sky, the sun had long since been banished. No moon, no stars. Only blood-red lamps mounted on the black stone walls, casting their dim glow on streets slick with filth and worse.
The people of Slaughter City didn't walk; they prowled. Eyes darting, hands twitching, blades hidden beneath cloaks. Everyone was a predator, but also prey. Everyone knew that a single misstep could mean their throat opening under another's knife.
And tonight, all their eyes were on him.
The Killing Fields of Hell were the city's heart. A wide circular pit, its stone floor stained permanently crimson. Torches burned along the rim, the flames guttering from the drafts of screaming voices.
Above, the stands were filled with spectators—criminals, lunatics, spirit masters who had been exiled from the outside world. Their voices roared like a sea of demons, clamoring for blood.
In the center of the arena stood a boy.
He was fifteen. Yet his height dwarfed grown men—two meters and five, a tower of lean, taut muscle hardened by endless killing. His long black hair hung damp with sweat, some strands matted with blood. But what drew every eye, what froze every throat, were his eyes.
Crimson.
Not a trick of light, not the reflection of torches—truly crimson, as though blood itself had crystallized within them. They glowed in the gloom like coals from a raging forge, piercing, merciless.
At his feet lay corpses.
Half a dozen men sprawled across the stone floor, their lifeblood pooling into rivers that wound between the cracks. One had his jaw split open, another's chest caved in, another's head barely attached. The boy's blade dripped steadily, droplets pattering onto the ground like the steady beat of a war drum.
The crowd screamed.
"CRIMSON MADMAN!"
"Slaughter him, slaughter them all!"
"Fifteen years old, and already a demon!"
The boy did not bow. Did not smile for their entertainment. Instead, he tilted his head back, breathing in the metallic stench, and his lips curled upward into something sharp.
Not joy. Not satisfaction.
Something closer to hunger.
He raised his blade, letting the firelight dance on its blood-wet edge, and swept his crimson gaze over the stands.
One by one, spectators flinched. Even here, in the heart of madness, there were limits to how long one could stare into those eyes.
Because those eyes promised one thing:
Every single one of them could be next.
The announcer's voice trembled as it echoed from the balcony above.
"Winner—Gu Kuangren! The Crimson Madman takes another victory!"
The stands erupted again, some in cheers, some in jeers, all in feverish bloodlust. The name spread like wildfire: Gu Kuangren. A name too sharp, too strange, already whispered with both awe and fear.
Kuangren lowered his blade and let it dissolve into nothingness, its crimson glow fading into his palm. Then he turned his back to the corpses without a second glance.
To him, they weren't enemies. They weren't even people.
They were fuel. And he was starving.
The corridors behind the arena were narrow, oppressive, lit by torches that sputtered in their brackets. The walls sweated with moisture—or perhaps it was blood, no one could tell anymore.
Kuangren walked slowly, deliberately, boots leaving wet crimson prints across the stone. He had cleaned his weapon before leaving the pit, wiping it meticulously with a strip of torn cloth. It was a ritual, one he never skipped. Blood on the blade was fine, but blood left to rot was disrespectful.
He replayed the fight in his head. Not the tactics—those were trivial, ever-changing. What he lingered on were the moments before death. The widening eyes. The shuddering breaths. The twitch of muscles as life fled the body.
The memory sent a tremor down his spine. His lips parted, exhaling softly as though savoring a taste.
It wasn't survival that drove him. It wasn't glory.
It was the kill.
Always the kill.
"You don't even try to hide it."
The voice cut through the silence, low and sharp.
Kuangren lifted his head.
Leaning against the far wall, half-shrouded in shadow, was a girl. She was slender but tall, her posture feline, controlled. Long black hair fell over her shoulders, and her golden eyes glowed faintly in the torchlight—cold, unblinking, like a predator measuring its prey.
Most people avoided his gaze. She didn't.
"You enjoyed it," she said. Her voice was calm, without judgment, but edged with steel. "Every scream. Every drop of blood. You enjoyed it."
Kuangren tilted his head, studying her. Then he chuckled, the sound low and unsettling.
"And you didn't?"
She said nothing, her silence speaking louder than denial.
Kuangren took a slow step forward, towering over her by nearly a head and a half. His crimson eyes locked onto hers, burning like fresh-spilled blood.
"Tell me, girl. Why are you here? Everyone comes to Slaughter City for a reason. Survival? Escape? Or…" He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of a blade's edge. "…something darker?"
Her golden eyes flickered, just for a moment. Then she answered, voice quiet but firm.
"To escape the cage they built for me."
Kuangren froze. Then his lips split into a wide grin, teeth flashing white against the shadows.
"Good answer."
He stepped back, turning toward the corridor's exit, his long hair swaying with the motion. His voice drifted behind him, cold and mocking.
"Walk my path, and you'll drown in blood. If you don't mind the stench, maybe you'll survive."
The girl didn't follow. But she didn't move away either.
And as Gu Kuangren's crimson eyes vanished into the dark, the golden glow of hers lingered.