Chapter Seven: The Duel

Before she could ask the Soul-Killer for more details, Ye Zhengliu was whisked away by the jailer.

She was still young and slight of frame. Although the shackles on her ankles were heavy and restricted her stride, her natural gait was already short, so they did not hinder her much.

It was the heavy wooden yoke across her shoulders that caused trouble. Ye Zhengliu shifted her shoulders with difficulty; the device felt like it weighed at least thirty pounds. The jailer escorting her likely felt that using such heavy-duty equipment on her was absurd—arming himself so thoroughly against a young girl was truly ridiculous.

"The arena isn't far. Walk faster; I’ll take the yoke off once we get there."

As he spoke, the jailer couldn't help but steal glances at Ye Zhengliu’s face. The women on the island were all kept in the Qunyu Pavilion, their movements restricted; unless one were assigned to deliver messages or run errands there, one never saw a woman. For a jailer, encountering a female was as rare as finding fish roe on one's chopsticks. He had been stationed on the island for years, and this was the first time he had seen a woman housed in the fighting pits.

During the shift change, the jailer had been warned by his colleagues about Ye Zhengliu’s background—he knew she was under the protection of Master Mu. Consequently, when he shackled and yoked her, he remained strictly professional, not daring to take any liberties. Hoping to curry favor with Mu Yaoguang through her, he offered a piece of advice along the way.

"The arena isn't a place for little girls to play games; it’s a place where people really die. I wonder if Master Mu will come to your match? If he shows up, you must cry to him early and act spoiled. As long as you haven't stepped onto the stage, it’s not too late to swap fighters. But once you’re on that stage, it’s all over."

He spoke as if Mu Yaoguang would actually care when Ye Zhengliu fought her first match. The jailer’s tone was earnest, but Ye Zhengliu couldn't be sure if Mu Yaoguang would come. And even if he did, she didn't believe he would help her. Last time, although he had helped her awaken her spirit with top-tier ore, she could feel that his actions were born of "whimsical convenience" rather than "benevolent kindness."

Naturally, she wasn't foolish enough to tell the jailer this. Letting him know she had no real relationship with Mu Yaoguang would do her no good. A local official is no match for the one currently in charge; she still needed to use Mu Yaoguang’s name as a shield.

Ye Zhengliu merely said calmly, "No need to beg Master Mu. It’s just a fight. Why don't you guess how many lives I have on my hands?"

—After all, to survive is to win, and if she died, there would be no need to worry about awkwardness. If she didn't act tough now, when would she?

The jailer paused, clearly not expecting such a beautiful, delicate girl to be associated with taking lives. He examined her with newfound curiosity and said skeptically, "I think you're just pulling my leg."

Ye Zhengliu smiled faintly. "What, do I not look like the type who would kill?"

As they spoke, the gates of the arena loomed close. Unlike the grand main entrance used by the nobility, fighters entered through a low, side gate. The red paint on the door was peeling, giving it a mottled, eerie appearance. Ye Zhengliu looked up at the gate that would decide her fate, inhaling deeply. The briny sea air filled her lungs. "It doesn't matter. Seeing is believing; you'll soon be convinced."

Before entering, she was taken to select a weapon. To prevent mishaps, she had been carrying the thin sword borrowed from the Soul-Killer. Perhaps because the Soul-Killer was well-known, people kept stealing glances at the blade. The Soul-Killer’s sword was light, but it was too thin and fragile for her liking. Since she had a choice, she picked a sharp, half-length light sword.

Once armed, she was led into the arena. The layout differed from the Roman-style amphitheaters she had imagined. Instead of a circular tiered structure, it resembled a banquet hall with a central open space. The second-floor gallery featured dozens of private rooms, and the fighting pit was a twenty-foot square, with bronze tripods shaped like beast heads at each corner, separated by taut red silk.

Ye Zhengliu glanced around casually. Behind the thin, icy-silk curtains of the private rooms on the second floor, shadows were clearly visible. The guests inside were lounging in various ways—some sitting, some fanning themselves, some sipping tea, others having their shoulders massaged.

*Wait,* she thought, *this isn't what the Soul-Killer described. There are spectators—and quite a few of them.* Did the Soul-Killer misunderstand the word "spectator"?

The thought vanished as she had to dodge gold and silver ingots being thrown from the second floor. Perhaps because the guests had never seen a woman fight, the moment she appeared, applause erupted from all sides. Gold and silver coins showered down like rain; a few gold pieces struck her, causing sharp pain—it was exactly like patrons at a theater showering a famous actor with gifts.

It was enthusiastic, yet condescending. Ye Zhengliu’s eyelids drooped, her grip on the sword tightening.

She and her opponent stood at opposite corners of the stage, separated by a master of ceremonies in long robes with slicked-back hair. The MC was a smooth talker who bowed in all directions as soon as he stood still. With a glib tongue, he introduced both fighters, then gestured for his attendants to carry trays through the private rooms to collect bets.

Ignoring the flowery, rhyming praise meant to inflate their status, Ye Zhengliu distilled the facts: her opponent was a commoner, had not awakened any cards, fought with ruthless brutality, and had four previous victories. In other words, he had killed at least four people.

She observed him silently: he was short, plain-faced, dirty, and hunched, with a habitual slouch and grease-stained cuffs. He looked like the most common sort of person in this era—someone who had never known a full stomach, was uneducated, didn't even know his own name, and lacked basic hygiene. Even with four kills under his belt, there was a predatory hunger in his eyes, yet that malice remained chaotic, primitive, and empty.

Ye Zhengliu could sense that the MC emphasized the "four victories" specifically, casting a glance in her direction, followed by knowing laughter from the floor above. Everyone expected her to be afraid, and everyone wanted her to be.

But she had nothing to fear. She had seen too many men like this on the road during her exile.

The MC checked the tally of wagers and laughed. "This match, one could say, has no suspense... Ha, the bets of our honored guests also have no suspense. Nineteen to one. It seems our newcomer has rather poor luck."

Most of the guests above maintained their stature and said nothing, expressing their attitudes through their wagers. Only one guest, whose voice sounded young, called out flippantly from behind a curtain: "Don't kill her too quickly! Capture her alive, and I’ll have her raped right there on the spot!"

"If you do as I say, I'll have them reward you with three meals of steamed white flour buns, served with a whole cage of braised pork the size of fists! Hahahaha!"

Hearing this, the man swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on Ye Zhengliu with a mix of lust and hunger. Meeting his eyes, Ye Zhengliu felt a slight twitch in her brow, but she gave no reaction. She didn't show panic, nor did she express anger. As a woman entering the fighting pits, she had prepared for all possibilities. The current situation was within her expectations—not even the worst-case scenario.

She had a plan for this as well. The best reaction to malice and provocation is no reaction at all. Because she didn't react, there was no entertainment to be had. Until the outcome was set, any crying, cursing, arguing, or resisting would only amuse the onlookers.

The greasy MC finished his quips, signaled for the attendants to clear the gold and silver coins from the stage, and retreated to the sidelines to announce the start. As for the outcome, he didn't need to judge it. The underworld was connected to the arena; the King of Hell was the judge. To live was to win, and to die was to lose. Everyone present had eyes to see the result; there was no need for a referee.

The moment the MC gestured, the man in the corner drew his long saber and lunged at Ye Zhengliu, unable to wait. In his eyes, a weak girl like her should have been terrified into paralysis long ago. The spectators above clearly thought the same, and as the man charged with murderous intent, a wave of cheers erupted.

The man was fast, but Ye Zhengliu was faster. Even before the MC announced the start, she had activated her second skill: *“I have a grand strategy; he can be beaten slowly.”*

Because of this risky move, she confirmed that when a card skill was used without obvious external manifestations, ordinary people could not determine if the card-master was utilizing their ability. Guards stood at the four corners of the hall to control the situation, and surely many of them held cards, yet none showed any reaction or rushed onto the stage to stop her.

*They couldn't see her using her card.*

As the man moved, the green arrow in Ye Zhengliu’s vision shifted to follow him. She waited patiently for two seconds, and only when the man was two steps away did she abruptly activate her third skill: *“Ten years of dreams in Yangzhou.”*

A silent countdown manifested in her heart. The man’s movements became stiff and sluggish, as if he were a stationary target. She had five seconds to kill him.

Time stretched to an incredible degree. The man’s ferocious, murderous expression seemed frozen; his leaping feet hung suspended in mid-air, refusing to land.

The first second: Ye Zhengliu stepped forward, closing the distance to his side.

The second second: She leaped, her leg sweeping across his knees, while she grabbed his shoulders and yanked him downward with all her might.

The third second: The man was dragged to the ground, face-down, his defenses completely exposed.

The fourth second: Ye Zhengliu drew her light sword. It was the perfect position and height—much like how a prisoner would offer their neck to an executioner in a moment of despair.

The fifth second: A flash of cold light, and blood sprayed everywhere.

Once the artery was severed, blood erupted a yard high under the pressure. Ye Zhengliu didn't dodge; she threw the weight of her body into the sword, pressing down hard, and was instantly drenched in the scarlet spray. Her pupils flickered slightly. She freed a hand to grab the man’s saber and threw it far away, not bothering to wipe the blood from her face.

The man struggled one last time, but a severed carotid artery was a fatal wound. Even with modern medicine, the chances of survival would be slim; here, it was hopeless. The blood dripping down her cheeks was still warm, but the life of its owner had already ended.

In just five seconds—too fast even for her own perception of slowed time, and lightning-fast to the spectators—the contest of life and death was decided.

The MC had presided over nearly a hundred matches, but never had he seen a result so swift, or a victory so dramatic between two such mismatched fighters. He caught his breath, momentarily forgetting to step onto the stage to announce the winner.

Ye Zhengliu pulled her sword from the corpse. Without wiping the blood from her face, she turned toward the direction of the voice that had called for her rape. Blood droplets, still fresh, traced scarlet lines down her temples, each one radiating a chilling, murderous intent.

Across the hall, behind the thin veil, the young man who had been gripping the railing in excitement had frozen. He was no longer arrogant or boisterous; he was as quiet as if he had swallowed his own tongue.

In front of him, Ye Zhengliu slowly wiped the blood from her blade with her sleeve. Since the MC wouldn't come up, she took over his job.

"Lucky win," she said.