Immortal Paladin

[POV: Yuen Fu]

Bad luck was only truly bad if it ended in death. At least, that was what Yuen Fu told himself. Tragedy, however, was different. Tragedy lingered, gnawed, and left scars deeper than any blade. And right now, tragedy was all around him.

The gladiatorial arena was a pit of misery dressed as spectacle. High walls penned them in, smeared with years of blood that never fully washed away. Chains rattled in the preparation halls, and the stench of sweat and despair clung to the sand itself. Above, tier upon tier of spectators leaned forward, shouting and jeering, their hunger for carnage as sharp as any blade. Somewhere, cloaked in shadow, the tyrant who owned this pit sat enthroned, silent, as though a god surveying his broken playthings.

Yuen Fu stood in the center, sword heavy in his hands. At his feet lay the man he had just struck down. The stranger’s chest heaved weakly, crimson pooling beneath him, breath already fading. With a trembling hand, the man reached toward the sky, lips parting in desperate prayer. “Lian… forgive me,” he rasped, voice ragged, “tell mother… I tried…” His eyes glazed even as he pleaded, pupils losing focus, but his trembling didn’t stop until his last breath escaped in a pitiful sigh.

Yuen Fu’s blade slipped from his grip, the tip dragging across the sand. He had no idea who this man had been… lover, brother, son, or just another soul stolen to feed the tyrant’s games. None of it mattered. The choice had been forced on him: his life or another’s. He had chosen to live, and that choice broke him more than any wound ever could.

The crowd, however, responded with thunder. “Kill! Kill! Kill!” they chanted, stomping in rhythm, their frenzy filling the air like war drums. Some roared his name, though most didn’t even bother; they were too lost in the thrill of blood. “Another one for the pits! Tear them all down! Make him fight again!” Their joy felt like venom, burning through him, and stripping away any shred of dignity.

Then came the collar’s reminder. The iron ring on his neck flared, runes igniting with a cruel hiss. His qi bled out of him in an instant, strength sapped until his knees almost buckled. Yuen Fu clutched at the metal instinctively, but there was no escape. The tyrant’s tool ensured obedience, reducing him from fighter to puppet.

The gates behind him creaked open, massive slabs of iron grinding against stone. A groan echoed into the arena, dragging his attention toward the yawning mouth of darkness. The scent of rust, blood, and damp earth wafted out to greet him. Yuen Fu’s eyes flicked back to the corpse lying in the sand, the man’s final words still ringing in his ears.

He bowed his head. Step after step, he forced his aching body forward, back into the shadowed halls. The cheers chased him, relentless, a chorus of cruelty that clung to his soul long after the light of the arena faded from view.

How did he end up in this cursed place, the Arena of Pain, the most prestigious battleground in the kingdom and the most-watched blood sport in the capital? Bad luck. Plain and simple. His, Lu Gao’s, and Jue Bu’s wanted posters were still plastered on every wall and checkpoint, and he had been careless. Careless enough to stroll through the market for reagents, hunting for the rare roots and herbs needed for his and Lu Gao’s tonic. He hadn’t had much choice; they were scarce, and if he wanted to mend his battered body and Lu Gao’s, he had to take the risk.

One keen-eyed cultivator spotted him, suspicion sparking into recognition, and from there it spiraled. A duel in the streets, then another, each opponent stronger than the last, each fight drawing more attention. By the time he realized how dire his situation had become, he was already dragged off in chains, paraded like some prize beast before the crowds. Northshire’s capital awaited him, and with it, the stage where so many had died for “entertainment.”

He remembered the audience with the tyrant herself. Slimmer than the last time he saw her, but no less cruel, the so-called ladyship of Northshire. Yuen Fu had dared glance upward, only to be met with a too-cheerful sight that twisted his stomach: Jue Bu, embedded to a wall like some grotesque decoration, grinning as though their suffering was all part of a joke. Before Yuen Fu could even gather his wits, he was sent to the pits.

“Good job,” a voice boomed beside him. Yuen Fu stiffened, turning to the towering man. It was Zhu Guanting, the Arena Overseer and reigning champion. Over two meters tall, clad in armor thick enough to withstand powered cannons, his presence crushed the air around him. The giant leaned close, his whisper rough as gravel. “You are almost ripe and ready for the taking. I’ll make sure you die a glorious warrior’s death at my hands. I am sure it would be some time before our showdow, but you know… Let’s give her ladyship a good show.”

Inwardly, Yuen Fu grimaced. Her ladyship? A lady? The tyrant was a butcher with a crown.

Zhu Guanting tapped him on the head, the way a master might pat a hound. His tone dripped with mocking cheer. “You did well this time. Really. Remember last time, when you tried to heal your opponent?” His grin widened, teeth flashing like a wolf’s. “Oh, I just had to show you how it’s really done.”

The memory stabbed into Yuen Fu’s mind. He had mended a dying fighter’s wounds, offering mercy where there was none. And then Zhu Guanting had descended into the arena, tearing the man apart in front of the crowd, ripping him limb from limb until nothing remained.

“Oh, and you remember that other time,” Zhu pressed on, his voice loud enough for only Yuen Fu to hear, “when you tried to throw your match, hoping to die?” He chuckled. “You almost had it. But I couldn’t allow that, could I? At the brink of your death, I swooped in… ripped your opponent to shreds. Declared him a cheat. Said you colluded with him.” He leaned even closer, his grin spreading into something monstrous. “And I made sure the crowd knew he died a slave’s death, not a warrior’s.”

Yuen Fu’s jaw tightened. His eyes fixed forward, unflinching. There was nothing to say. Monsters like Zhu Guanting fed on reactions, and thrived on watching their prey break.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Finally, Zhu straightened, the amusement draining from his face. “Hmph. Not talking? Fine.” He shoved Yuen Fu aside, dismissing him like discarded meat. “Go on, then. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

Relieved of the giant’s shadow, Yuen Fu was promptly ushered back through the iron gates. The cheering of the crowd still thundered in his ears, each roar reminding him of the blood on his hands and the eyes that watched his every step.

“Get in there, you dirty slave!”

Unlike other battle slaves, Yuen Fu had his own private quarters. It was no luxury, merely a cramped cell with a bed, but at least it offered silence away from the jeers of guards. The only flaw was the two small viewing ports above his head, no larger than his face, that opened directly into the blood-soaked sand. There was no escaping the sights or sounds of slaughter.

He lay on the hard mattress, staring at the ceiling. His meridians throbbed like torn wires, refusing to channel qi properly. Since Jue Bu had forcibly unlocked his potential, his cultivation had collapsed, dropping him from the Sixth Realm, Essence Gathering, to the Fifth Realm, Soul Recognition. He could not heal himself, could not mend what was broken.

Sleep never came easy, but he drifted into meditation, his soul-space opening to him. There, his essence took the form of a giant sun, burning bright and golden. It radiated warmth, comfort, and the faintest echo of hope. This was his sanctuary, untouched by chains and blood. Yet even here, peace was temporary. The booming voice of the host dragged him back to reality.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for tonight’s surprise entertainment, we have prepared a special event! For your delight, the Champion of Pain himself will participate!”

Yuen Fu’s eyes snapped open. His stomach sank. Zhu Guanting only fought once a month, and he had already claimed his kill not long ago. Something was wrong. He stumbled to his feet, tiptoeing beneath the viewing port, straining to see. Through the narrow slit of light, he caught sight of the giant armored figure striding into the arena.

Opposite him stood not warriors, not cultivators, but a family of four. An elderly husband and wife, a girl barely old enough to be called a maiden, and another woman dressed as though she had been dragged from a banquet hall. They were civilians, mundane humans with no trace of cultivation. Yuen Fu’s blood turned to ice.

The host’s voice rose above the crowd, dripping with glee. “This family of four finds themselves suffering a terrible debt! The man of the house thought himself a cultivator and sought glory in our arena. But alas! He met our dear Thunderbird, who… against our customs… spared him! Can you imagine? The Thunderbird had to be reminded by our beloved Champion what mercy costs in the Arena of Pain!”

The crowd erupted into laughter and jeers. Yuen Fu’s chest tightened. “Thunderbird, that’s me… isn’t it? The man I spared… No… Fuck!”

“And so,” the host continued, “a spared man is a dead man! His corpse lies cold, dismembered. But why should the fun end there? Tonight, we have invited his family to play, or else they face the execution block! A round of applause, everyone!”

“No!” Yuen Fu slammed his fist against the wall, the iron collar digging into his neck. His voice cracked as he screamed, “What the fuck does that mean?! Zhu Guanting, don’t you dare!”

Down below, Zhu Guanting tilted his head upward, as if he could see through the narrow ports. His gaze locked on Yuen Fu’s shadow and his lips twisted into a cruel jeer. He raised his massive blade, the host shouting the words that sealed the family’s fate.

“Let the special event commence!”

“Stop it! Don’t do it!” Yuen Fu howled, his throat tearing raw as he clawed desperately at the viewing port, his nails scraping stone, blood streaking the wall. “Don’t you fucking do it! Don’t—!” His voice cracked, breaking into silence, but still he clawed, still he screamed, until his throat was nothing but fire and dryness.

The arena floor was silent for a heartbeat before the old man, trembling yet resolute, stepped forward. His hand reached the racks where weapons gleamed dangerously, as if offering a smidgen of hope. Fingers curled around a simple spear, nothing more than ironwood tipped with steel, hardly worthy against a monster like Zhu Guanting. Yet he lifted it with both hands and steadied his breath. His knees quaked, his shoulders shook, but in his eyes was defiance.

“For my family!” the old man roared, lunging forward with what strength remained in his aging frame.

The crowd laughed even before the spear’s point left his hand. Zhu Guanting stood tall, amused, waiting until the man closed the gap. One hand snapped out like a bear’s claw, seizing the old man by the throat with effortless cruelty. Bones cracked beneath his grip. The spear clattered harmlessly to the sand.

“You think courage is enough?” Zhu Guanting jeered, his voice booming like thunder across the stands. With a single squeeze, he ripped the head clean off the old man’s shoulders and clumsily carrying them as if he might accidentally let go. Blood sprayed in an arc, painting the ground.

The crowd roared in delight and laughter

Zhu Guanting dangled the head by the hair, turned to the trembling old woman who had collapsed to her knees, and sneered. “Here’s your husband.”

He flicked his wrist, sending the head flying. It struck her skull with a sickening crack, collapsing her fragile frame to the sand. The laughter of thousands echoed, feeding the blood-soaked air.

Zhu Guanting drove his massive sword into the sandy ground, the weapon sinking into the dirt like it belonged there. “I thought I’d need this,” he said casually, brushing his hands as if the fight bored him. “Turns out I don’t.”

The crowd erupted again.

The younger woman clutched the little girl to her chest, rocking her as if her arms alone could shield her from the nightmare. The girl’s small voice trembled, “Mommy… where’s Daddy?”

Zhu Guanting bent low, lips curling back in a grin too wide and monstrous. With obscene strength, he tore the child from her mother’s arms. The girl screamed, kicking helplessly. His jaw cracked open, distending grotesquely. He swallowed her whole. Her cries ended in an instant.

“No!” the woman shrieked, her voice breaking. She clawed at him, beating his armor with her bare fists, her face streaked with tears.

Above, Yuen Fu clawed desperately at the bars of his viewing port, his throat raw from screaming. “Stop it! Stop, damn you! Zhu Guanting, don’t do it! Please… please!” His voice was drowned by the crowd’s chants. His nails split as he tried to tear through iron, blood smearing the edges of the stone.

Down below, the torches lining the arena flickered, their flames stretched into long, dancing shadows that clung to the walls like twisted spectators of their own. Zhu Guanting towered over the lone survivor, his massive hand curling around her wrist and yanking her up as though she weighed nothing. The dolled woman screamed, kicking her legs in futility, clawing at his grip with broken nails.

“Let me go! Please… please! We’ve done nothing!” she cried, her voice ragged with terror. “Kill me if you must, but spare me this shame!”

Her cries only fanned the hunger of the mob. They howled like animals, stamping their feet, chanting his name. “Guanting! Guanting! Guanting!”

Zhu Guanting leaned close, his rancid breath spilling across her face. His grin widened, splitting his face into something monstrous. “Spare you? After your husband ruined our entertainment? After your daughter gave me such a fine meal?” He chuckled, the sound guttural, booming, like an ogre mocking the world. “No. You’ll give her ladyship a better show.”

He hurled her down into the sand, her body bouncing once before she scrambled to her knees, clutching her torn dress tight. “Please… I beg you,” she whispered, eyes darting to the stands as if someone or anyone might intervene. “Someone, stop this!”

No one answered. The mob only roared louder, drowning her voice.

Zhu Guanting planted a boot upon her back, pinning her. The torches shuddered, their light sputtering, shadows rippling like black waves over stone. He unstrapped his gauntlets, tossing them aside with a clang. “Do you hear them?” he asked, spreading his arms as the crowd’s chant reached a fever pitch. “They demand a show. And I never disappoint.”

The woman screamed again, thrashing, her hands clawing trenches into the dirt. “You monster! May the heavens curse you!”

Yuen Fu clawed at the viewing port until his fingertips bled. “Stop! Damn you, stop! She’s not your toy, she’s not—!” His voice cracked, his throat shredding into hoarse sobs. He slammed his head against the iron, as though pain might break it open. “Don’t do it… don’t do it…”

The flames in the torches guttered violently, plunging half the arena into darkness. The shadows lengthened, writhing like serpents across the walls. For a moment, the woman’s terrified silhouette was outlined on the sand, wriggling beneath the looming bulk of Zhu Guanting. Then the light sputtered again, drowning her in flickering black.

The crowd erupted in laughter, applause, and chants, their joy a sick hymn to cruelty. The jeers and the sound of struggle merged into a single cacophony. And as the torchlight danced, the horror unfolded, not in sight, but in sound, in implication, in the broken sobs of a man who could do nothing but weep.

Yuen Fu’s cries dissolved into the roar of the mob. No one heard him. No one ever would.

The insects in the poison jar of evil squirmed and squirmed, feeding the madness.