Morning in Slaughter City was no different than night.
The air reeked of iron and smoke, torches burned dim in alleyways where sunlight never touched, and the cobblestones were forever slick with blood that no one bothered to wash away. Time passed here, but day and night blurred into one endless red haze.
And yet, even in this place where killing was as common as breathing, there were whispers.
Low, hushed voices carried through the crooked streets, passed between gaunt figures cloaked in rags, mercenaries with bloodstained armor, prostitutes with hollow eyes, and killers sharpening their blades.
"Did you hear?" one muttered near a cracked stone wall, his eyes flicking nervously toward the shadows."A boy," another whispered. "Tall as a giant, with eyes like burning coals.""They say he killed five in the alleys last night. Alone. One after another. He… he didn't just kill them. He played with them."
The words spread like smoke, growing with each telling. Some said he had ripped a man apart with his bare hands. Others claimed he drank blood from his victims' throats. The stories twisted, exaggerated — but the core truth remained.
A newcomer had walked into Slaughter City and painted the streets red.
And Gu Kuangren walked among them now.
His long, black hair flowed loose behind him, brushing his shoulders. His crimson eyes, sharp as blades, glowed faintly even in the weak light of the torches. He stood impossibly tall, towering above the crowd — two meters and five centimeters of solid muscle wrapped in ragged black robes.
The crowd parted as he moved, almost without realizing it. Men who would normally sneer or spit stepped aside, avoiding his gaze. Women who would usually reach out with painted fingers to beg for coin shrank back, lowering their eyes. Even the guards in their spiked black armor, men who killed daily in the name of Slaughter City's bloody laws, kept their distance.
Kuangren walked slowly, savoring it.
The fear.
The weight of a hundred eyes trying not to meet his own.
His lips curled into the faintest smile as he dragged one hand across a wall. His fingers came away stained with old blood. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the tacky texture, lifting it to his nose to breathe in the faint metallic tang.
A soft sigh escaped him.
Last night's fight still sang in his veins. He could feel the cracks in his knuckles, the sting of the cut on his arm, the throbbing of torn flesh at his ankle where the hook had bit deep. Pain was a melody, and his body was still humming with it.
Yes, he thought, crimson eyes narrowing as he inhaled again. This city might just be the place for me.
From the shadows of a nearby rooftop, golden eyes followed his every step.
Zhu Zhuqing crouched low, her body still, breath steady, every muscle tensed in silence. She had tracked him since the alleys, since that night where she had seen him carve through his enemies with laughter on his lips and blood in his hands.
And now, watching him move through the streets, she realized something chilling.
The city itself was bending around him.
Slaughter City was a place that chewed up the weak and swallowed them whole. But Gu Kuangren wasn't being chewed. He wasn't being tested, mocked, or challenged like every newcomer usually was.
He was being avoided.
Even in silence, Zhu Zhuqing could hear the whispers carried on the damp wind.
"Crimson-eyed giant…""…doesn't feel pain…""…mad dog, hungry for blood…"
Zhu Zhuqing's brows furrowed. She had come here to temper herself, to grow stronger, to shed weakness. But this man — this boy, only her age — was walking the same path in a way she couldn't understand.
And yet… she couldn't look away.
Kuangren stopped at the center of a small square where broken stalls leaned against one another. A few hawkers stood there still, selling food — stale bread, questionable meat, murky bottles of liquor.
As Kuangren stepped into the square, silence fell.
He could feel it.
The air tightened, every gaze sliding toward him, then snapping away like rats scurrying into cracks. The hawkers froze mid-transaction, a woman's hand trembling as she passed a hunk of bread to a customer.
Kuangren tilted his head back, inhaling deeply.
"This," he murmured, his voice low but carrying through the square, "is what it means to live."
His crimson eyes swept the crowd slowly, deliberately. He lingered on faces, savoring the twitch of fear when someone realized his gaze had settled on them.
Then he smiled — sharp, cruel, amused.
And kept walking.
The crowd exhaled as one, relief rippling through the square. Whispers reignited like fire catching on dry wood.
"That's him…""The crimson-eyed giant…""They say he's crazy.""Not crazy. Hungry."
Kuangren's smile deepened as he passed through the square. He didn't need to announce himself.
The city was already doing it for him.