“Able to rip Holy Sword shards from other bodies?” Luxiao let the Angel’s words sink like stones into a dark lake.

A thin frown creased his brow, a chill like winter ash shadowing his face.

A breath later, he was hurled into another arena, same bones, different skin—its flat center sprawled wider than Tiananmen Square, a desert of stone.

At the same time, Angels ferried a flood of other humans in, setting them down like scattered leaves across the sand.

They looked nearly identical, a tide of red masks sealing every face, coarse burlap hanging on them like rough bark.

Luxiao swept a glance like a cold wind; by the count of shapes, more women than men stood beneath the masks.

Just as his thoughts drifted like mist, colored clouds budded in the air, swirling together above to shape a platform like a painted reef.

A gate, lavish as a palace dream, descended from the sky and settled on that cloudborne dais like a silent moon.

Under thousands of startled stares, the gate opened with a slow sigh, like a sea door letting in dawn.

A woman stepped out, her form flawless as a carved statue, her face veiled like a moon behind thin clouds.

In an instant, every Angel pressed a hand to chest and knelt like wheat bowing to wind, devout as pilgrims before a holy spring.

She dipped her chin like the tilt of a crescent, and only then did the Angels rise like cranes lifting from water.

Her gaze swept the ring like a cold tide, and she spoke in a tongue Luxiao had never heard, yet meaning flowed into every ear like light into glass. “Mortals, I grant you again the chance to ascend. If you claim the complete Holy Sword, the Divinity you hold will not be weaker than mine.”

The humans barely moved, a field of stones under rain. Her brows pinched like a thin cut across silk.

They had watched too many die like leaves in a storm; their hearts had hardened like iron under frost.

An Angel suddenly spoke, voice bright as a bell. “Not only that. The Celestial God will grant you three wishes—any wish at all. Start when you’re ready.”

“Silence, all,” the Celestial God said, her tone a blade kept in velvet.

Chains of silence snapped over every mouth like cold iron petals, sealing language as if night bit down on sound.

Still, the crowd held, a pond without ripples, fear and hunger buried like coals under ash.

Boredom tugged at Luxiao’s lids like heavy rain; then a gust of killing intent brushed his side, cold as a knife-edge.

He looked instinctively and caught a masked human locking eyes with an Angel, their stare sharp as crossed blades.

The Angel felt Luxiao’s gaze, turned, and smiled at him with a sneer like a hook under flesh.

A chill ran to Luxiao’s marrow like ice threading bone; he understood what was about to break.

The masked stranger drew the iron sword from the trial, steel whispering like a quick river, and severed a head in a single arc.

A Holy Sword shard shot from the victim’s mind like a star bursting from cloud, punched a bloody crater in the skull, then dove into the killer’s body.

His greedy laughter rolled across the arena like thunder skimming low. “If you won’t start, I’ll send you off myself!”

The melee flared at once, wildfire tearing across dry grass.

Luxiao knew some among them were the Angels’ plants, snakes coiled in wheat; no one would wait meekly for the scythe.

He reached for his chest; a woman’s kick slammed his waist like a falling beam, and he flew, body tumbling like a leaf in gale.

He snapped out a chain woven from energy, iron lines hissing like striking serpents, snaring nearby bodies to slow his fall.

Face like stone, he eyed the woman and the ring of hunters around him; a calm smile touched him like dawn on frost. Chaos from the first breath—fine, he liked the honest storm.

But most eyes drifted to that woman, whose killing aura rose like a black tide; compared to her gale, Luxiao’s wind felt mild.

The scene grew feral, a jungle of blades and tricks—the crowd showed off the slaughter they’d learned, skills blooming like poison flowers.

Above, the Celestial God nodded, satisfied as a hawk watching a clean kill, and departed with Angels like a flock sliding into cloud.

Only savage fighting remained below, till the last victor crawled from the bones like a lone wolf from snow.

Angels glanced down with mockery like thin frost on glass. One Angel sighed, voice tinged with envy. “A pity the Holy Sword won’t accept us. Otherwise why fetch these otherworlders? With the Holy Sword, their Divinity outstrips us Angels. It stings.”

The Celestial God smiled faintly, like moonlight on steel, said nothing, and flew on toward distance.

The Angels fell silent and sped up, wings cutting air like white knives.

In the arena, Luxiao seized an opening; his chain punched through a man’s chest like a spear, and he vaulted past him like a shadow.

He ripped the chain free, iron grating through meat like grinding stone; the man gaped, words dying like sparks in rain.

A Holy Sword shard blasted from the man’s mind like a comet, smashed a wide hole through his skull, then sank into Luxiao like a hot nail through wax.

Luxiao’s hand shook like a reed under storm; inside, no tide of feeling rose—only a faint bitterness like tea gone cold. First kill, still a thorn.

No one would pause for his breath; bodies surged like surf, filling gaps around victors, blades and tricks finding backs like rats in dark.

The woman who’d kicked him had vanished like mist at noon. Luxiao kept cutting through the crowd, chain whipping like a river-whip in flood.

One thought lived in him like a coal under ash: Try. Live.

…

“One hundred eighty-three,” Luxiao muttered, face wooden as a mask. He lifted a fallen blade and drove it into a heart like nailing a lid shut.

He turned. Two days of slaughter had scraped the arena bare; most no longer stood, bodies strewn like driftwood, lives snapped by every kind of blow.

Nausea tugged at him like a black wave; he leaned on the blade like a stave just to keep from collapsing.

He raised his head; his eyes, gray like old smoke, stared up, and his mouth twisted in a face that was both laugh and sob. “Raising gu is really damn fun.”

Steps whispered near, soft as walking on water; someone was trudging across blood, ripple by ripple.

He forced himself upright, bones creaking like frozen branches, and faced a man whose sigh sounded like an apology on winter wind.

The man bowed, a simple dip like wind bending a reed. Luxiao shook his head—he didn’t think he’d lose; his will held fast like a nail.

They crossed paths at a blur, shadows weaving; steel clanged, ringing like bells struck under ice.

Moments later, the man fell, body folding like a tent in rain.

Luxiao held the man’s weapon—a huge scythe, heavy as a harvest moon—and his grip slipped; the blade dropped and smashed the man’s face with a dull thud.

Half his red mask shattered, revealing an ash-pale face, eyes drained of life, deep bags like bruises, unfocused gaze pinned to a far sky.

Luxiao froze, wanting to cry with no voice, leaning on the scythe like a crutch, his tremble small as a trapped bird.

The man fixed his fading gaze on Luxiao, baffled by the sudden stillness, his strength gone like sand under tide.

He stopped resisting, eyes empty as glass, mind drifting through days like leaves in a stream.

Then something surfaced; light returned to his eyes like sparks in soot. He looked at Luxiao in surprise, then with a soft apology woven into his stare.

Maybe he understood why Luxiao hadn’t finished him, why the hands holding the scythe shook like winter hands by a poor fire.

Clearly, they both knew who the other was, the recognition a knife pulled slow.

Luxiao held still, lost for a beat, watching that face steady and alive again, uncertain as a stray in snowfall.

The man smiled, thin and helpless, a curve like a cracked bowl.

Footfalls rushed behind Luxiao, the next enemy coming on like a stormfront.

He tried to turn, but his body sagged; one knee hit stone like a dropped hammer—no strength left.

He watched death sprint at him, the iron sword a line of cold rain, and he let out a loose laugh, ready for the night.

Then the fallen man sprung up with sudden force, body a last spark, and blocked the incoming sword with his chest like a shield of flesh.

The blade punched through, red bursting like a crushed pomegranate; the attacker shoved the dying body aside and raised his sword for Luxiao.

The man on the ground coughed blood, a dark flower blooming, then went still as a winter pond.

Luxiao’s eyes widened, and he surged upright like a flame finding air; power flooded him, hot and violent as molten iron.

He spun the scythe in a brutal arc, a full moon cutting low, and cleaved the attacker clean at the waist.

Two Holy Sword shards glided free like twin swallows and slipped into Luxiao, melding like rain into earth.

He glanced at the man’s body and sighed, a wind across old graves, then looked at the last survivor in the ring besides himself.

That man shuffled closer, steps dragging like wet rope.

Luxiao watched coldly; when the distance closed, he lashed his chain, a crack like thunder, and struck the man’s head.

At full strength, that tap would be a gnat to these altered bodies; now, it was the final straw, a straw on a broken back—the man collapsed.

Luxiao reeled the chain in, links whispering like river stones, and murmured inside, “One hundred eighty-five.”

…

“Guess he was the one to win,” said the Angel who’d first brought Luxiao, voice tinted with awe like dawn on steel.

The Celestial God nodded, pleased like a sculptor seeing clean lines. “Good. The Holy Sword will return soon. Hurry—wash away part of his memory. We need the perfect warrior.”

Several Angels bowed and withdrew, feathers sweeping like quiet snow.

The Celestial God turned to the Angel who had guided Luxiao and smiled, a beam like sunlight through thin cloud. “Well done. As your reward, I grant you the name Akenachel and the Divinity of a highest-ranking Angel. Do you accept?”

Akenachel brightened, joy rising like spring water, and dropped to one knee. “Gladly, I’ll serve you.”