The bald, burly man felt his serrated cleaver almost slipping out of control to the side, right into the waiting right hand of Tang San. Tang San yanked it forward with force, dipping his shoulder as he drove straight into the man's chest.
With Ghost Shadow Phantom Trail under his feet, Tang San's speed was lightning-fast. Combined with the momentary opening he'd created by seizing the weapon bare-handed, his fluid, seamless movements instantly put him on the offensive.
Yet the bald man's reflexes were surprisingly sharp. He released the cleaver immediately and hurled the cup in his other hand straight at Tang San's face, his body springing backward with both arms crossed before his chest.
Tang San's torso twisted midway, forcibly killing his forward momentum. His left hand flicked, catching the cup mid-air. His wrist trembled with strange precision, and not a single drop of blood spilled from the rim.
"Thank you." With the Bloody Mary in hand, Tang San wasted no more words, turning to walk inside.
Though the bald man hadn't been physically struck, the raw power Tang San had erupted with in that instant still sent a chill down his spine. His face twisted into a savage scowl, but strangely, he made no attempt to reclaim his Bloody Mary. He simply turned and left without looking back.
"Mercy toward an enemy is cruelty toward yourself," Tang San murmured as he walked forward. His wrist flipped, fingers dancing with a few deft movements, and the serrated cleaver slipped silently from his grasp. For such a massive weapon, it made not a sound. By now the bald man had already turned onto another street, out of Tang San's line of sight.
But the cleaver flew as though it had grown eyes of its own, tracing a beautiful arc through the air. A muffled scream rang out in the darkness, and then there was silence.
"Let's go," Tang San said calmly to the black-veiled girl, who stood frozen in place.
"You…" This was only the second time the black-veiled girl had witnessed Tang San in action, and the shock was far greater than the first. She knew that bald man—in Hell's Arena, he had survived seven consecutive matches, meaning he was the sole survivor out of seventy.
On the surface, the young man before her didn't seem all that much stronger than his opponent, yet killing him had been as effortless as crushing an ant.
The interior of Hell's Arena was even more spartan than its outside suggested. There were no partitions—rows of tiered seating rose in concentric rings around a vast open floor well over a hundred square meters. At the moment, the spectators were sparse, fewer than twenty percent of the seats occupied. Inside the arena, screams echoed without pause. Of the ten fighters who had entered, seven corpses already lay on the ground. The last three were still battling for their lives.
At the entrance, the cup of Bloody Mary Tang San carried was poured into an enormous basin.
"I'd like to register. I want to compete in the next match," Tang San told the black-veiled girl.
By now, the black-veiled girl no longer considered this young man a fool. Tang San's strength had sparked an involuntary flicker of fear within her. She nodded without hesitation, took the identity token Tang San handed over, and went off to handle the registration.
The City of Slaughter repulsed Tang San—that was his only real feeling about the place. He didn't want to waste a single day here longer than necessary. Win a hundred matches to earn the title of champion, then challenge the Road to Hell, and he could leave. He had already decided: the fighting would begin today, right now. From a distance, he sensed a gaze fixed upon him. He turned to look and saw that it was Hu Liena watching.
His journey of slaughter began that day—in this gloomy world, this realm steeped in blood and depravity. He not only had to claim victory after victory, but he also had to make it out alive.
Three days after entering the City of Slaughter, Tang San had already killed over a hundred fallen ones. Yet he had only participated in two matches. In those three days he came to understand that the true terror of this place wasn't the opponents inside Hell's Arena. It was the constant ambushes that came after each match, when he was at his weakest.
No wonder Hu Liena had only managed sixteen matches in an entire year. From then on, Tang San learned to be cautious, careful, and far more patient.
A month passed. Tang San's win count in Hell's Arena had climbed to nine. Those bold enough to ambush him were fewer now—but also far stronger. As his victories mounted, he learned of another rule: in each new match, the opponent's total number of Hell's Arena appearances could not be fewer than his own by more than five. Unless every remaining contestant had more than five fewer matches than he did.
One year later.
A frigid aura hung in the suffocating air as ten figures slowly filed into Hell's Arena. Tang San walked third among them, yet he was the focal point of the other nine.