Gao lunged with inhuman speed, blade stabbing straight for Zhāo's gut. Though the motion was blindingly fast, Zhāo saw clearly where the knife aimed. He slipped gently to the right.
The thrust missed. Zhāo retaliated with the butt of his own knife, smashing it into Gao's mouth. Gao staggered back two steps from the blow—then spat something out: a front tooth, blood rushing from his lip.
"You little bastard!" Lóng Xuán and the rest of the Mínggǔ roared with laughter at Gao's toothless grin.
Rage swallowed Gao. He attacked in a flurry, stabbing wildly, each strike meant to kill. Strange as it was, none of his blows landed.
Irritated by Zhāo's hit-and-dodge game, Gao screamed and leapt to the edge of the arena. "This time I'll finish you for real!" he howled.
He charged again at impossible speed—this time zig-zagging. Zhāo's eyes darted left and right, tracking the red-skinned man's insane pace. At two meters out, Gao hurled his knife at Zhāo's face. Lucky, Zhāo parried it.
Seizing that moment, Gao unleashed a wild freehand punch aimed to avenge his missing tooth.
But Zhāo was far from dull—he read Gao's mind and did something startling. Zhāo tossed his knife upward, spun around Gao in a flash, and landed behind him. The spinning blade fell into his waiting hand; in a single, fluid motion Zhāo drove it to Gao's throat.
"Surrender. Don't make me kill you!" Zhāo shouted.
Gao froze. The tip of the blade hovered two inches from his flesh—one move and his life would end.
"Finish him!" Lóng Xuán screamed from beyond the ring.
Zhāo did not move. Gao used the pause to elbow Zhāo's stomach and wrench free from the death-hold.
"What is he doing?" Lóng Xuán asked Ruò Yún.
"Zhāo has never killed before," she replied. "His heart isn't strong enough to take another life."
"If he doesn't kill now, he will die."
[There is no retreat, Zhāo. Kill him—or you die.] the voice hissed.
Zhāo shook his head, trying to push the demon-voice from his mind. He looked at Ruò Yún as if helpless—his soul still recoiling at the thought of murder. He could not bear to take a life.
"You naïve brat!" Gao roared. "You fool—you should have killed me when you had the chance. A coward like you will never be our prophet. You're like your father: weak, lowly, sitting on a throne doing nothing. No wonder your kingdom was taken. Your family deserved to die!"
The words set Zhāo ablaze.
[Kill him…] the voice urged.
His eyes flared, burning with wrath.
[Kill him!]
Zhāo rose, gripping the knife differently now. The blade that had been pointed back moments ago was thrust forward.
[KILL HIM!!!] the inner voice screamed.
The air grew heavy. Zhāo's hands shook as he held the blade; his breathing thundered loud enough for all to hear.
Lóng Xuán, Ruò Yún, and the whole tribe felt the danger radiating off Zhāo. An inexplicable unease crossed their faces as the boy stalked Gao. A chill ran through everyone at once.
Even the blind Matriarch leapt from her throne, sensing the anomaly in the ring.
Gao felt it worst of all. He swallowed as if something stuck in his throat. He backed away slowly, palms slick with sweat.
"What is this feeling? The air turned… heavy," Lóng Xuán muttered to the crowd.
"I've never seen Zhāo this angry," Ruò Yún whispered.
"Haaaa!!!" Gao screamed and leapt backwards to the far edge, trying to put as much distance as possible between them. "What kind of monster are you?!"
"Aren't you afraid of me?" Zhāo asked. The strings around Gao writhed wildly in Zhāo's sight.
Gao struggled to control his breath, already losing it.
Zhāo walked toward him with slow, terrifying authority. The strings around his body writhed like roasted worms.
"Gao… Gao is dead," the Matriarch murmured, stunned. Lóng Xuán and Ruò Yún froze. "His death is inevitable now. The end of this fight is clear." She sank back into her seat, trembling.
Zhāo tossed his knife aside and said calmly, "Attack me. I'll kill you with my bare hands."
Gao inhaled deep, closed his eyes, forcing his heart to find its rhythm again. After three long breaths he steeled himself and launched at Zhāo with every ounce of might. Zhāo stood unarmed, but Gao's instincts screamed danger.
"I'll never believe you're the prophet. I'll prove it with a reserved move I've kept for the last moment—take this!" Gao roared like a possessed devil and drove his blade into Zhāo's shoulder. A few drops of blood splattered the arena floor.
"No—Zhāo!" Ruò Yún cried, unable to watch the horror.
"Now who will die?" Gao sneered.
That sneer melted into terror. The wounded Zhāo grinned wider than Gao had ever grinned. As if he felt no pain, Zhāo grabbed the knife in his shoulder with bare hands. The smile spread into a monstrous leer—dead and smiling. Gao's hands trembled when he met Zhāo's green eyes.
He fumbled, tried to withdraw his knife—but the grip on Zhāo's blade was iron-strong. Zhāo's hand held it like a vice. The scene echoed Ruò Yún's memory of Zhāo's mother's death.
[Finish him now!] the voice urged.
Zhāo pressed his face close to Gao's ear and whispered, "Sever your head."
Gao's hand moved as if possessed. He pulled the blade from Zhāo's shoulder—and then, as if compelled, sliced his own neck. The black knife screamed through the air, and Gao's head fell, rolling free across the arena floor. Blood sprayed from the lifeless body at the center of the ring.
Zhāo stamped on the fallen head, lifted his hand high, and declared his victory.