CHAPTER 18: CHAPTER 18

Ethan couldn’t tear his eyes from the scene before him.

The blood-soaked platform, where the corpse sprawled with limbs twisted at unnatural angles, was like a wound on the world itself.

The victor—a silhouette painted in red, eyes wild beneath a matted fringe, back heaving with ragged breaths—stood over the carnage with an aura so cold and malefic he seemed less man, more demon.

Blood clung to his skin in oily patches, dried and fresh streaks crossing his face, his hands, his feet. Hair was pasted to his forehead, darkened by gore. His robe, if it could be called that, was nothing more than torn rags revealing muscle corded and twitching, as if the violence had only barely been contained within the flesh.

For long seconds, the world was nothing but that tableau. Ruined body, monstrous survivor, the sticky gleam of blood thick across the stone. And in that crimson reflection, Ethan finally saw the hard truth of the cultivation world—raw, relentless, and infinitely cruel.

Beside him, Kael stood. His posture was calm, arms folded, gaze lingering on the bloody arena, as unreadable as cold stone.

But Ethan caught the flick of his eyes, the brief glance that took in Ethan’s face—his tension, his terror.

Inside, Ethan was panicking.

This is a world where a man can be beaten, kicked, and left to bleed on the stone for minutes while a crowd gathers to watch—then the victor just... laughs and sleeps in the blood? What happens if one day, for some reason, it’s me lying on that ground? Anxiety wrapped around his heart like steel wire.

His thoughts ran wild, spinning pointless, dreadful scenarios:

What if I offend someone in the sect, and their disciple calls me out for a "simple spar"—only for it to become a blood duel?

Will someone challenge me for a resource drop, or could I be ganged up on because my system grants me something rare and someone notices?

What happens if I trust the wrong person and they decide my luck is better in their hands?

What if I’m forced to defend myself, win, and then become the new target for everyone who saw how strong I am?

Ethan’s paranoia painted fake dangers everywhere.

The idea that "strength was everything" had a meaning here far more real and immediate than any novel or game he’d ever read on Earth.

Did rules matter? Did justice exist, or was everything just a thin shell covering old grudges and ambitions sharpened into blades?

He imagined himself fighting in this arena, lungs burning, river of blood running down his chest, bones breaking under savage impacts. Or—worse—he thought of himself crawling, as the dead man had, hands slipping in his own blood, vision failing as the world became red and black and cold.

He wondered if the system would protect him when it mattered most—or if, like everyone else, he was just meat and spirit to be cut down and forgotten.

Ethan was so lost in his panic that he didn’t notice how much time had passed. He and Kael hadn’t moved a single step from where they’d stopped—half an hour slipping by, the rest of the practice fields settling back into cautious routines. Around them, life resumed, soft echoes of staff strikes, whispers of Qi, the occasional grunted instruction from a patient elder. Yet in the death arena, only a few lingered, unwilling to approach too closely to the grisly remains.

Kael watched the blood-soaked victor now sprawled in exhaustion—whether sleep or stupor, Ethan couldn’t tell—head pillowed in a cooling puddle.

Most people who’d watched had drifted away, their curiosity sated, their nerves frayed, returning to their own practice and petty squabbles.

Ethan’s gaze was fixed on nothing, his mind a storm. He was pulled back only when Kael finally spoke—suddenly, the world snapped back into focus, the carnage reanimating itself in Ethan’s vision.

He realized the death arena was nearly deserted now; only one or two distant figures watched from the shadows, caught between morbid fascination and self-preservation.

Ethan turned on Kael, seeking something—answers, reassurance, maybe even a denial.

Kael faced him directly, dropping the mask for a heartbeat, his stare was chill, almost hollow. Then Kael forced a brittle smile—a smile so artificial Ethan could sense it was the kind people wore to ingratiate themselves with elders or strangers of higher status, with tension quivering in the lines of his face.

With as much gravity as he could muster.

Ethan pointed at the carnage, the broken body on the ground, the red-washed victor, the mess that passed as law in this world.

His voice was thick with urgency, dread just barely leashed—

"Can anyone kill anyone here, without any consequences?"

For a moment Kael looked as if Ethan had struck him—not with the question itself, but with the fact that, of all things he could have asked, this was the first.

Not "why did they fight to death?" Not "why not use spiritual energy or weapons?" Not even "what exactly is the death arena for?" (Though Ethan thought the name explained enough for the death arena.)

Kael’s composure returned quickly.

"This place is called the death arena because battles to the death are hosted here," he answered calmly, nothing more, nothing less.

Silence ringed them, the kind that made skin tingle.

Ethan’s chest tightened. He tried to breathe deeply, but every inhale felt like swallowing sand.

The air around him thickened, crowding his nerves. His anxious energy spiraled outward, shifting the mood.

Kael, sensitive as a wild animal, suddenly seemed unsure—his foot slid backward an inch; his eyes darted, searching for movement, threat, his breath hitched. For a split second, Kael was frozen, trapped in a hesitation he’d never shown before, as if something in Ethan’s presence was pushing the air colder, the world heavier.

Ethan realized how his patience was splintering, his body’s energy leaking out like steam from a cracked kettle. Yet beneath the fear was a living ember—a yearning for control, answers, maybe even the release of a true fight.

He cooled. Waited. Said nothing, pressing Kael for more. The silence became an unspoken challenge.

Kael seemed to weigh the tension, rolled his shoulders back, then, against all expectation, the corners of his mouth curled in a genuine, if cautious, grin.

"Let’s spar," Kael said.

The suggestion stunned Ethan, falling into the air with the weight of an unbreakable oath.

And in that moment, more than blood and fear and confusion, anticipation filled him.