The rain had stopped just before nightfall, but the streets still glistened as though the clouds had bled onto the earth. Jie crouched in a narrow alleyway, his small fingers resting against the damp stone as he watched men carry wooden crates down into the bowels of the city. The crates rattled with the weight of coin and liquor, but Jie wasn't here for treasure. He was following the whispers.
For days, he had heard rumors: men fighting in the dark, no rules, no referees, no shame. The villagers whispered about it with a mixture of awe and disgust. Jie, only eight, listened with wide gray eyes that unsettled grown men. He had already broken bones in street skirmishes, had already felt the warmth of another's body giving way beneath his fists. But a fight where men came just to bleed, where they fought to satisfy some nameless hunger—that was something he had to see.
The alleyway opened into a shadowed stairwell, guarded by a man with shoulders like a bull and a scar tracing from his ear to his collar. Jie stepped out from the dark. The man's eyes narrowed at the sight of the boy.
"You lost, runt?" the guard growled, spitting to the side.
Jie didn't answer. He only stared with those gray, unblinking eyes. The guard shifted uncomfortably. He'd seen men twice his size wilt under that gaze, but this was a child. It wasn't natural.
"Kid, you don't belong—" the guard began, but Jie slipped past him like smoke.
"Hey!" the man barked, reaching out, but the boy was already down the stairs, his bare feet padding on stone.
The underground air was thick with sweat, smoke, and cheap rice wine. Torchlight flickered against walls smeared with grime, and in the center of the chamber was a circle marked crudely by chalk. Men gathered around it, shouting, waving slips of paper, coins, bottles. Jie had never seen so many faces twisted with hunger—not for food, but for violence.
Two fighters clashed in the circle: one tall and lean with quick hands, the other broad and lumbering. The lean one ducked and slammed his elbow into the larger man's throat. The crowd roared as the big man gagged, staggered, and dropped.
Blood hit the dirt floor.
The sound it made—thick, wet, final—echoed in Jie's ears. He leaned forward, heart thumping like a drum in his chest. That smell, the iron tang that stung his nostrils, hit him harder than any strike. His lips parted. For the first time, Jie wanted.
The match ended, coins changed hands, the broad man was dragged off by his ankles. The crowd bayed for more. Jie moved closer, weaving between legs and knees, until he stood right at the edge of the circle. His small body looked fragile against the ring of towering men.
"Who's next?!" barked the announcer, a wiry man with a crooked jaw. "Who dares enter the pit tonight?!"
No one stepped forward immediately. Then Jie took a step into the circle.
The room stilled. Laughter burst out like breaking glass.
"A boy?!" one drunk shouted.
"He's barely out of the womb!" another laughed.
"Get this brat out of here!"
But Jie's eyes never moved. He stood in the circle, chest rising and falling, fists clenched.
The announcer smirked. "You want to fight, boy? Then bleed for us. Who'll take this little lamb?"
A man staggered from the crowd, shirtless, belly scarred with old cuts. His grin was missing teeth. "I'll crush him quick. Won't even break a sweat."
The crowd roared approval. The announcer spat on the ground and barked, "Then let the match begin!"
The man lunged. His arm swung like a club, thick and heavy, meant to knock the child senseless. Jie ducked, almost by instinct, and the fist whistled over his head. His heart pounded. He felt the rush of wind, the heat of flesh, the danger that pressed against his skin.
And he smiled.
The crowd jeered. "He's just dodging! Smash him!"
The man swung again, faster, knuckles scraping Jie's ear. Pain flared, sharp and stinging, but Jie didn't falter. He slipped inside, driving his small fist into the man's ribs. There was a dull crack. The man grunted, staggering back.
The crowd gasped.
Jie's knuckles were sore, throbbing, but the sound of bone giving way filled him with an electric thrill. He pressed forward, striking again, again, wild but precise, each blow landing where it would hurt most. The man reeled, blood spraying from his lip.
"You little—!" the man roared, swinging downward. Jie's world spun as the fist grazed his temple. He staggered, vision flashing white. His knees nearly gave, but then—he tasted it.
A drop of blood had run down his lip and onto his tongue.
The taste was sharp, metallic, alive. It burned his throat as though it carried fire. Jie's eyes widened. His body trembled—not from fear, but from exhilaration.
He surged forward.
The crowd erupted as the boy leapt, his fists hammering into the man's face with shocking ferocity. Each strike echoed in the chamber, a brutal percussion. Blood sprayed, teeth clattered against stone. The man collapsed, groaning, his body twitching on the dirt floor.
Silence.
Then, chaos. The crowd exploded in shouts and cheers. Money flew into the ring. Men clapped, laughed, shouted curses and praise all at once.
The announcer stumbled forward, eyes wide. "The boy wins! The boy—what's your name, child?"
Jie stood in the center of the ring, chest heaving, fists dripping crimson. He didn't answer. He just stared at the blood smeared across his knuckles, then licked it away, slow and deliberate.
The crowd roared louder than ever before.
"Gray-Eyed Demon!" someone shouted.
"No, Thunder Beast!" another cried.
"Monster-child!"
The names piled on him like chains, but Jie didn't care. He only knew the fire in his veins, the taste on his tongue, the hunger that now refused to sleep.
That night, as the torches burned low and the crowd dispersed, Jie walked home in silence. His lip was split, his ribs ached, and his fists were swollen, but his eyes glimmered with something that made even the shadows draw back.
For the first time in his short life, Jie had tasted blood.
And he wanted more.