Night fell like ink across Qianlong City.
A crimson moon, split by dark clouds, hung overhead — a bad omen for most… but a promise for someone like Zhu Yan.
He stood before a stone archway half-buried in rubble, hidden behind the back alleys of the slums. The token in his hand pulsed faintly as demonic qi resonated with the barrier. With a single step forward, the illusion peeled away like silk.
Beyond it, the Broken Moon Arena came into view — a hollowed cavern beneath the city, glowing dimly with soul lanterns and lined with jagged obsidian. The stands were packed with cloaked spectators, nobles and rogues alike, eager for bloodshed and profit.
Zhu Yan descended the stairs in silence.
A masked attendant approached. "Name?"
He paused, then replied evenly,
"...Ash."
The name was meaningless — and that made it perfect.
The attendant grunted, scribbled it onto a slip of jade, and gestured him toward the iron gates.
"First-timers start in the lower ring. You survive five matches, you move up. You die… you die."
Zhu Yan said nothing. The scent of blood was thick here, soaked into the stone itself. But it was the arena that whispered to him — the manual vibrating faintly under his skin, eager for violence.
A gong echoed.
The gates creaked open.
He stepped into the pit.
Cheers erupted from the crowd as his opponent entered — a burly man wielding twin axes, his aura fierce and reckless. Fourth Layer Foundation Realm. Experienced. Brutal.
But Zhu Yan only raised a single hand.
The man laughed. "You bring a hand to an axe fight?"
Zhu Yan's reply was a whisper.
"Devour."
The next moment, darkness surged. A tendril of black qi lashed out like a serpent, coiling around the man's leg and yanking him forward with supernatural force. Before the axeman could recover, Zhu Yan moved — faster than sight, his palm crackling with demonic flame.
One strike.
One scream.
The axeman's body convulsed, then collapsed into ash, his soul essence siphoned into Zhu Yan's core. Gasps filled the arena. Even the masked nobles leaned forward.
"…What kind of cultivation technique was that?"
He stood calmly, the burn mark still sizzling on the stone beneath his feet.
No blade. No weapon. Just death.
The announcer hesitated before shouting:
"Winner — Ash!"
As he left the pit, whispers spread like wildfire.
The man with no sect. No background. No mercy.
And no name… except Ash.
But in the shadows, one figure watched from behind a silver mask — the same woman who gave him the token. She turned to a cloaked figure beside her.
"Find out where he came from. And if he can kill like that again."
She smiled faintly.
"Or if he's just another ghost… wearing a mask."