The roar of the crowd had only just begun to fade when guards brought Jin back to the holding area. He leaned against the bars lazily at first, but when his eyes caught sight of Ruan being escorted in chains, his grin faltered.
Her face was bruised, dried blood stained her lip, but her spirit was still sharp. She looked up, caught his expression, and immediately turned away.
She didn't want him to see her like this.
Jin sat cross-legged in front of her, leaning against the bars between them. For once, he didn't pull a face or throw an insult. He just said softly, "…Sorry."
Ruan blinked, confused. "For… what?"
"For this." He gestured to her bruises, to her restraints. "You shouldn't… look like this because of me."
Ruan frowned but tried to steady herself. "Idiot. You're not the cause."
They stumbled through the words — her tongue not fully grasping his, his fumbling in hers — but the meaning carried. They had traveled long enough together now to understand each other beyond words.
Ruan looked down, then up again, trying to smile. "Are… you okay?"
Jin stared at her for a long moment. Then his expression softened into something she hadn't seen before. A bright, unguarded smile — the kind that almost made her forget the chains on her wrists.
"…I'm okay," he said.
Before the guards could drag them apart, he reached through the bars and tapped her forehead lightly with one finger. She almost laughed despite the pain. Then she was pulled away, and Jin returned to the ring.
The arena was louder now, tension mixing with anticipation.
The translator stepped forward, his voice ringing through the amphitheater. "For the third round, the stipulation is…"
He paused, and the crowd leaned in.
"…each blow that lands must draw blood. Victory is only possible when the ring is marked by your opponent's blood three times. Otherwise, the fight does not end."
Gasps echoed. Then, slowly, laughter spread through the nobles' seats. "Blood stipulation! He'll be torn apart in seconds!"
Jin's grin froze. His eyes flickered with a trace of discomfort. Blood? That's… He rubbed the back of his neck. "What a fun bunch you people are…" he muttered.
Then his opponent was introduced.
"Lù Shàolín, third warrior of Tiān Yún Diàn!"
The man who stepped forward made the entire crowd fall silent.
He was tall, shoulders broad, his skin pale under the torchlight. His arms were marked with thin scars like rivers etched across his flesh. He wielded twin curved blades that gleamed red — not painted, but stained. His presence was heavy, like storm clouds pressing against the earth. And most unnerving of all was his face: calm, expressionless, his eyes two cold lanterns.
Jin's usual smirk twitched. "…Oh."
He bounced once on his heels, twirled his hand, and whispered, "Okay, okay… maybe don't joke this one to death. Focus, Jin. Fun later."
The gong rang.
The match began slower than the last two.
Jin shifted sideways, hands raised, eyes locked on the twin blades. He didn't rush. His opponent didn't either. They circled, measuring.
The crowd grew restless, shouting insults, demanding blood.
Then suddenly, Shàolín lunged.
Steel flashed. One blade sliced horizontally, the other angled for the gut. Jin ducked low, sliding under the arc, the edge whispering over his hair. He twisted, swiping at the ground to spring back up, narrowly avoiding the second strike.
The first clash echoed in the arena.
Jin straightened, exhaling through his teeth. "…Too fast."
Shàolín did not speak. He only advanced again.
This time, Jin met him head on, catching one blade with his palm. The metal screeched against his skin, the crowd gasping, thinking he'd been cut. But Jin twisted, rolled his wrist, and shoved it aside. The second blade nearly kissed his ribs, but he bent backwards, spine arched, narrowly evading.
The crowd erupted.
Jin grinned faintly, though sweat trickled down his brow. "What are you, a butcher? You cut meat like that?"
Shàolín's eyes flickered with faint disdain, but he gave no answer. His blades crossed, clashing down in a brutal arc. Jin barely stepped aside, the strike gouging the stone floor. Sparks flared.
The stipulation rang in his head. Three drops of blood. That's all it takes.
Jin's movements grew tighter, sharper. His usual clowning turned into small feints — exaggerated shrugs, funny sidesteps, but each layered over precise parries. His footwork was water, flowing, unpredictable, but careful.
Then, in a blur, Shàolín's blade finally grazed him.
A shallow line across Jin's forearm. Red welled instantly.
The crowd roared. "One mark!"
Jin hissed, clutching his arm dramatically. "Ow, ow, ow! My beautiful arm! How will I wave at the ladies now?!" He staggered like he'd been mortally wounded, almost falling over.
The audience laughed uproariously — but those with keener senses noticed: Jin was buying himself a moment to think.
Shàolín pressed harder. He unleashed a barrage of strikes — twin blades flashing in vicious arcs, left-right, high-low, spinning like a storm. Each blow forced Jin to pivot, duck, or deflect. Sparks flew with every near miss.
Jin couldn't rely on brute force here. He couldn't end it with one blow — not under this stipulation.
He started to weave Tide Root Style into his footwork, blending flowing motions with sudden crashes. His body ducked like a wave, then surged with sudden force. He redirected strikes with his arms, sometimes clashing palm-to-blade, sometimes twisting his body to slide past.
But Shàolín was relentless. His strikes grew more brutal, each one aiming not just to mark blood, but to carve deeply.
Another shallow cut across Jin's side.
"Second mark!" the announcer cried.
The crowd went wild. "One more! Finish him!"
Jin staggered, clutching his side, eyes narrowed. For the first time, the smile slipped fully.
"…This is bad," he muttered. "If I get cut one more time, I lose. And that means Ruan…"
His grip tightened, his aura flickering just for a moment — the faintest shimmer of the killing intent he had shown before.
The two circled again. Jin's breathing was heavier, but his eyes were sharper now. Shàolín adjusted his blades, stance shifting, prepared to end it.
The crowd was feverish. The nobles leaned forward. Lord Bi'an narrowed his eyes. The Clan Leader's expression was unreadable.
Xiǎoyè, perched high above, flicked its tail nervously.
Jin exhaled, muttering almost to himself, "Alright. Fun's over… just a little serious now."
The gong echoed for the restart.
Shàolín charged.
Jin moved.
This time, the clash rang louder, sharper, more brutal than before.
And the round had only just begun.