Part D – The Master Sets the Stage
The summons arrived at midnight.
A single page of blackened parchment, sealed with crimson wax in the shape of a serrated sword. The edges were scorched slightly, as if the sender had set fire to the world while writing it.
The message was simple:
"Appear at the Master's hall. Midnight. Come alone. No blade."
Kuangren did not blink when he read it. He folded the parchment with deliberate care, tucking it into his tunic.
No one — not even the Arena Master — had issued an invitation without purpose.
And he had no intention of being naive.
He arrived as the torches along the hall flickered to life, their flames casting long, jagged shadows along the black stone walls. The hall was vast, domed, echoing with the faint drip of water from the ceiling. Rich tapestries, each embroidered with depictions of bloodied victories, lined the walls — trophies of the Arena, reminders of the lives spilled to entertain the city above.
The Master waited.
Not standing, not sitting — waiting. The mask of lacquered bone gleamed in the torchlight, his hands folded atop the black oak table, polished and scarred by centuries of plotting.
"Gu Kuangren," he said, voice soft but carrying across the hall. "I wondered if you would come."
Kuangren stepped forward, tall and unyielding. His crimson eyes, twin coals in the dim hall, swept across the Master with faint amusement. "I come because you asked," he said simply.
The Master inclined his head. "Good. You are a man of obedience… or perhaps you simply understand the cost of disobedience. Either way, it pleases me."
He gestured to the long table. "Sit. Tell me of the last battle. Tell me what you saw. Tell me… why you spared some and not others."
Kuangren considered the offer. He did not sit immediately. The hall's shadows whispered at the corners, carrying memories of his victims, the silent stares of those who had challenged him. His eyes flicked briefly to a tapestry depicting a fight that had ended with a dozen corpses — fresh in memory, old in legend.
"I spared no one," he finally said, voice low, measured. "Those who lived were not mine to decide upon."
The Master's head tilted, mask glinting. "Interesting. A man who kills freely but claims restraint. That is… unusual."
"And useful," Kuangren added, stepping closer to the table. "If you wish to test me, do not expect mercy. If you wish to use me, know that I choose my own path."
A ripple passed through the assembled lieutenants — not of fear, but anticipation. Few men dared to speak with such certainty in the presence of the Master. Fewer still survived afterward.
Zhu Zhuqing's eyes were already in the hall.
She had been summoned too, though for a different purpose. Cloaked in shadow, she perched atop a balcony, unseen by most but not by the Master. His influence stretched across the room like smoke, every glance measuring her, testing her like a predator sizing prey.
Her tail flicked nervously behind her, claws retracted but her body taut. She had not expected to be in the same room as him — Kuangren. And yet here he was, taller than the tallest man, crimson eyes blazing in the torchlight, aware of every movement.
Calm, she told herself. Watch. Observe.
But her gaze kept returning to him, betraying her intentions.
The Master continued, walking slowly around the table, each footstep measured. "I understand… your reputation precedes you. Madman. But I see something else. Discipline. Precision. A ritual in your chaos. And the cat," he added, voice lowering, "has chosen to follow you."
Kuangren's eyes flicked subtly to the balcony, noting the faintest shimmer of her figure. His lips curved, not into a smile, but a shadow of recognition.
"You are trying to manipulate me," he said flatly.
"Perhaps," the Master admitted. "Or perhaps I simply wish to understand you. Strength like yours is… rare. Dangerous. Useful."
"And if I refuse?" Kuangren asked.
"Refusal," the Master said, voice dropping to a whisper, "is… complicated."
He tapped a finger on the table. The sound echoed. The tapestries seemed to shiver faintly in the torchlight.
Kuangren remained still. He did not flinch.
The Master gestured to a map on the table. It depicted the city and the surrounding territories, red dots marking rival factions, black lines connecting their paths, blood trails abstracted into strategy.
"You see," the Master said, "power is a game. Some move pieces without care. Some move pieces carefully. And some… become the pieces themselves."
Kuangren's gaze swept over the map, noting every symbol, every path, every territory marked in shadow. He said nothing.
"Soon," the Master continued, "you will face the Arena's true test. Not a fight, not a battle of strength, but a battle of… presence. And the cat will be there. Observe carefully."
Kuangren's lips twitched faintly. "Presence? That is not my concern."
"Not yet," the Master murmured. "But it will be."
Zhu Zhuqing's tail flicked again. From her vantage, she could see Kuangren's subtle acknowledgment of her, the faintest recognition that he knew she was there, even without looking directly.
Her pulse quickened, claws itching with unspent tension. She wanted to leap down, confront him, demand answers. But she remained, quiet, patient.
Observation first, she reminded herself. Understanding comes later.
Kuangren stepped back from the table, turning slowly toward the exit. He did not look to the Master. He did not bow. But he carried an aura of command, a statement that he would not bend, that he would not kneel.
And yet… he left a fragment of intrigue behind.
The Master smiled beneath the mask. "Interesting," he murmured. "Both cat and storm. Both predator and witness. This… will be most enlightening."
The hall echoed with silence as Kuangren's boots disappeared into shadow, leaving the Master and the lieutenants alone with the maps, the strategy, and the scent of blood that always lingered in the Arena's air.