Lou Hezheng stood amidst the hushed arena, a wide, almost imbecilic grin plastered across his face. He wiggled his toes, adjusting the toe-less sandal on his right foot, as if pondering the quality of the stone beneath him. From the lower tier of the VIP gallery, Bao Xiyue’s gaze remained fixed. The ice in her eyes had not thawed, but it shimmered with an unfamiliar light. Her fingers, usually still, twitched subtly near the hilt of her Sky-Piercer blade. This Lou Hezheng was an anomaly, a breach in the predictable order of things. He was not the boy whose name was synonymous with failure and public scorn. *Kid, wipe that goofy smile off your face; the bastard who cursed your womb is sitting in the VIP gallery right now.* Grandpa Tuo’s rasp tore through Hezheng’s mind, sharp as a jagged shard of flint. The grin didn’t falter, but a faint, almost imperceptible shift occurred behind Hezheng’s eyes. The playful, vacant amusement solidified into something cold, calculating. He swept his gaze across the faces of the assembled elders in the VIP sections, a casual, almost clumsy survey that belied the razor-sharp focus beneath. He lingered for a fraction of a second on a corpulent elder with jowly cheeks and eyes like greedy embers, seated near the center of the highest tier. Elder Kuang, a respected figure in the Doctrine Hall, known for his stern adherence to protocol. A faint, sickening thrum resonated within Hezheng's chest, a low, ominous vibration that only he could feel. It was the demonic womb-curse, reacting like a predator sensing its master. The feeling pulsed, dark and malevolent, directly from Elder Kuang. Hezheng's grin tightened, a slight, almost imperceptible tremor at the corners of his mouth. So, it was him. The man who had condemned him to a slow, agonizing death. The pleasant facade remained, but the pleasantness was a brittle shell over a core of pure, unadulterated intent. “Silence!” A voice boomed, cutting through the frozen quiet. Elder Jian, the head referee, a wiry man with a perpetual frown, stepped toward the boundary. “The tournament continues! Lou Hezheng, you have secured your advancement to the next round.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Hezheng with a mix of suspicion and disdain. “The Jade Stele has calculated the next matchups.” The giant, emerald-hued stele at the arena’s edge glowed, its etched characters shifting and reforming. A collective murmur rippled through the crowd as the new pairings appeared. Hezheng scanned the names, his internal focus sharp. Then, his gaze landed on his own entry: *Lou Hezheng vs. Jiao Hong, the Black Brute.* Dark mirth tugged at Hezheng's ribs. Jiao Hong was notorious, an enforcer from the lower crags known for his monstrous strength and a complete lack of mercy. He wore a heavy, reinforced armor forged from black iron and rarely fought without leaving his opponents broken and scarred. Pitting an alleged invalid against Jiao Hong was an obvious, blatant attempt to ensure a quick, brutal elimination. The rigging was so transparent, it was almost insulting. Hezheng glanced up, meeting Elder Kuang’s gaze across the arena. The elder offered a saccharine smile, a false benevolence that Hezheng now knew masked a viper’s heart. The challenge was clear. A subtle nod passed between them, a silent exchange of intent that only they understood. “This is outrageous!” A new voice burst from the crowd. Ding Lihou, Hezheng’s fiercely loyal friend, shoved past two onlookers, his face contorted with fury. “Jiao Hong is a known menace! This pairing is an obvious attempt to break Hezheng for good! It’s unjust!” Two burly Pavilion Guards, clad in polished bronze armor, moved to block Ding Lihou’s path. “Silence, disciple! Interruption of the tournament is forbidden!” one guard barked, raising a heavy fist. “Forbidden? This is corruption!” Ding Lihou roared back, his eyes flashing with an uncharacteristic, almost primal rage. He lunged straight ahead, not at the guard, but towards the stele, as if to rip the names from its surface. The guard scoffed, delivering a swift, powerful backhand across Ding Lihou’s face. The blow sent Hezheng’s friend sprawling, a crimson spray arcing from his nose. As Ding Lihou lay dazed on the flags, a network of dark, spiderweb-like veins pulsed briefly on his temple, a fleeting shadow beneath his skin, unnoticed by all but a few. Hezheng’s grin flickered for a microsecond. A cold fury, distinct from his usual playful anger, flared in his chest. *That bastard*, he thought, referring to Elder Kuang. He would pay for this. He would pay dearly. “The match proceeds!” Elder Jian declared, his voice cutting through the tension. “Lou Hezheng, Jiao Hong, enter the arena!” From a side entrance, Jiao Hong lumbered in. He was a mountain of a man, his black-lacquered plate clanking with every step. Spiked gauntlets covered his hands, and a heavy, brutalist helmet obscured his face, leaving only a dark slit for his eyes. He radiated an aura of raw, unbridled destruction. He walked directly towards Hezheng, his heavy boots shaking the ground. “A cripple, huh?” His voice was a guttural rumble, distorted by his helmet. “Elder Kuang says I’m to send you home in pieces.” Hezheng maintained his goofy grin, raising a hand in a casual wave. “Ah, Master Hong, such pleasantries! I was hoping for a friendly spar, but if you insist on playing rough, I suppose I can humor you.” Jiao Hong let out a harsh laugh, a sound like grinding stone. He charged, a black blur of armored rage, his spiked gauntlet aimed for Hezheng’s head. The force behind the blow was enough to shatter solid rock. Hezheng swayed, his body dissolving into a shimmering phantom image just before impact. Jiao Hong’s fist met empty air, the shockwave rippling outwards. He roared in frustration, spinning to unleash a sweeping kick that tore through the air. Hezheng, reappearing behind him, chuckled. “Too slow, Master Hong. You’re like a sluggish ox.” Jiao Hong’s patience snapped. He abandoned all finesse, becoming a whirlwind of brute force, each strike aimed to pulverize. Hezheng danced around him, a ghost in the storm, his time-bending phantom steps making him appear in multiple places at once, just beyond the reach of Jiao Hong’s crushing blows. The crowd gasped, then murmured in astonishment. This wasn’t just evasion; it was mockery. After a flurry of missed attacks, Jiao Hong paused, panting, his heavy armor gleaming with sweat. “Stand still, you rat!” “But where’s the fun in that?” Hezheng chirped, dodging another wild punch. He saw his opening, a momentary gap in Jiao Hong’s heavy armoring where the chest plate met the abdomen. It was a miniscule target, but Hezheng didn’t need much. He darted in, a flash of movement too quick for the eye, and delivered a light, almost dismissive tap to the exact spot. Jiao Hong grunted, barely feeling the blow. He scoffed, raising his gauntlet for another strike. Hezheng had already retreated, resuming his wide, vacant grin. “Is that all, boy?” Jiao Hong taunted, winding up a truly devastating punch. *One… two… three…* Just as Jiao Hong’s fist was about to launch, a sickening *CRACK* echoed through the arena. The dark armor across his chest spiderwebbed with fissures, then exploded outwards in a shower of black shards. Jiao Hong stared in disbelief through his visor. He let out a choked gasp, his massive body buckling as if hit by an invisible hammer. He fell, a heap of shattered armor and broken flesh, unconscious before he even hit the ground. The arena fell silent once more. Lou Hezheng stood victorious, his grin unwavering. The silence gave way to a collective gasp, followed by the reluctant, hesitant declaration from Elder Jian: “Lou Hezheng is… the victor!” Just as the words left the elder’s lips, a violent tremor seized Hezheng’s chest. The demonic womb-curse flared, an agonizing eruption of cold, black energy. A searing pain tore through his core, and he doubled over, a gurgling sound escaping his throat. He coughed, a thick stream of black blood erupting from his mouth and splattering onto the pristine white stone of the arena. His vision swam, but the goofy grin remained, stretched taut, almost manic. He straightened quickly, wiping the black blood from his chin with the back of his sleeve, making it look like a clumsy, messy grin. No one would suspect. No one could know. “Ahem.” Elder Kuang’s voice cut through the stunned murmurs from the VIP gallery. He stood, his jowly face a mask of concern. “Everyone, I believe our young Lou Hezheng requires immediate medical attention. That… was quite a show of strength, but also, clearly, a severe internal injury. Pavilion Guards! Seize the boy! He will undergo a thorough medical inspection in the Doctrine Hall, immediately.” Two armored guards moved swiftly, their hands reaching for the weakened boy.

Blood in the Jade Stele