Chapter Two: Past Memories, Our First Encounter

The slave stood frozen, watching as the people of the Underworld rushed straight toward him. He had completely given up any thought of resistance, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Obsidian, refusing to look away.

He saw Obsidian weakly clutching the lapel of the Judge's robe, murmuring softly, "Let him go."

With a sudden, harsh laugh, the slave burst out laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks as his vision blurred with mirth. Only then did he turn and leap away. But now, where could he possibly go?

Racing among the clouds, the slave suddenly seemed to recall something and quietly doubled back to the Underworld, slipping into the Hall of Asura.

Inside the Hall of Judgment, at the final moment, the Soul-Devouring Bell had split in two, shielding Obsidian. Aside from some internal injuries, Obsidian’s life was not in danger. Yet, strangely, Obsidian had lain in a deep sleep for three or four days, showing no sign of waking.

Obsidian felt as though he floated atop the clouds, swaying, able to hear the voices around him but unable to open his eyes. His consciousness drifted, until at last he felt control returning to his body. When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself standing before a door bearing a plaque inscribed with "Hall of Asura."

Asura—so close in name to the Judge, differing by but a single character.

Obsidian entered. Inside, the hall was empty, long untouched by any resident. He followed the corridor, continuing forward. On either side hung uneven white gauze, swaying softly in the breeze.

At the end of the corridor, he saw a figure, back turned, playing chess. The person seemed to hear his footsteps and looked back with a smile. "You’ve come..."

The man’s face was exactly the same as his own. Shocked, Obsidian felt as though he had long ago arranged this meeting, and sat down slowly.

In the Hall of Asura, the slave gazed at the familiar scene, lost in memories of the past, his eyes closing in a daze.

In this world, especially among those of high rank, nothing was more taboo than impure bloodlines. This was even more pronounced in the realms of demons and monsters. Thus, the half-demons and half-devils were always the most despised among their kind. Still, the world of monsters was kinder than that of demons.

For the half-devils born into misfortune, it was their fate from the very beginning to live as slaves, as the playthings of others. Those among them skilled at combat would inevitably become the toys of the so-called ruling class.

The Demon Domain’s gladiatorial arena was notorious throughout the Five Realms—a place of violence, blood, and shadow. If you had power, influence, or enough strength, you could do as you pleased here. In the arena, strength was the only law.

There was an unwritten rule in the ever-packed arena: spectators could purchase their favored half-devil slaves to compete in deadly matches. If the slave won, the buyer’s money would double. But those who could afford to buy slaves rarely cared about the money; they sought only the thrill of competition, the chance to vent, to prove their power, status, and prestige.

At that time, the slave was the most popular half-devil in the arena—undefeated in every match he fought. Those who selected him were themselves backed by formidable power, as could be imagined.

Once again, the slave had been chosen to compete in the so-called life-and-death contest. He could no longer say how he felt about it; by now, it had become routine. As numbness crept into his heart, so too did endless weariness.

"Go on, go on, get up there!"

"Number One, Number One, what are you staring at? Get up there!"

"I paid good money for you to fight, so why are you just standing there? Get up there, now..."

No matter how the people around him shouted and cursed, the slave was unmoved.

The moneyed patron, his beard trembling with rage, strode forward to kick the slave onto the stage. The slave dodged lightly, and the patron, unable to stop himself, tumbled into the crocodile pit beside the arena. Blood splattered everywhere, and for a moment, the crowd fell silent. Then the atmosphere erupted into an even greater frenzy, as if the spectators were high on bloodlust.

In a small pavilion at the front of the arena, several individuals watched the proceedings in silence.

A burly, broad-shouldered man with thick brows and large eyes, clad in a dark gray brocade robe adorned with four beast patterns—the distinctive fabric of the Demon Royalty—watched the scene below, so different from what he had imagined.

The Demon Domain’s eldest prince, Flame, glanced cautiously at the man beside him and, growing impatient, beckoned a servant closer. "What's wrong with that slave?"

The servant replied with a smile, "Your Highness, that slave has always been like this. But isn’t that what draws so many spectators?"

The man beside Flame played idly with his wine cup, also smiling. "No matter. Let’s keep watching."

Flame raised an eyebrow. Seeing that the slave had not dampened anyone’s spirits, he leaned over and whispered a few words to the servant, who started in surprise and hurried away.

The arena was cleared once more.

Flame gave a few pleased chuckles. "Don’t forget what you promised me. If I find some fun here, you’ll teach me those techniques." Just thinking about mastering those moves made him giddy with excitement—his passion for martial arts was well known.

The man shot Flame a sidelong glance. "What scheme have you cooked up this time?"

Flame just grinned and gestured toward the arena.

The field had been rearranged, now several times larger. One hundred pure-blooded demon warriors entered in succession, and the slave was brought in after them.

The man focused his gaze, murmuring, "One hundred pure-blooded demons against a single half-blood?" Everyone knew the chasm between the powers of pure and impure bloodlines. The half-devil had not the slightest chance of escape. Now things were truly interesting.

The crowd’s excitement reached a fevered pitch.

"Ahhhhh!"

"Number One, Number One, one against a hundred!"

"Filthy half-devil, die, just die already!"

"Yeah! How could you possibly beat a pure-blood?"

"Die, die, just die!"

The jeers and curses merged into a single cacophony.

With a loud clang, the demon warriors clustered into tight formations, launching their attacks in waves. The slave stood dazed, but as they struck, he dodged with subtle movements.

As his thoughts returned to the present, the slave looked at his opponents as if they were already corpses, then charged forward. His movements were swift and precise, and soon a swath of warriors was left lifeless in his wake.

This was not what Flame had intended. Unhappy, he beckoned the servant again and whispered more instructions before sending him off.

Soon after, the warriors retreated slightly, and a group of twelve- to fourteen-year-old slave children were shoved into the arena. The man beside Flame instinctively frowned. "Flame!"

Flame, oblivious to the shift in his companion’s mood, pointed at the arena excitedly. "Don’t worry—just watch!"

The warriors began to attack the children, chasing them across the arena. The slave froze, biting down hard in frustration. Damn it!

Just as a warrior was about to drive his weapon through a child’s chest, the slave rushed over, shielding the child with his own back. The expected bloodbath did not occur.

The warrior’s strike halted in midair, then, shockingly, he staggered back and self-destructed.

The man beside Flame quietly rose. "From tomorrow on, I never want to see this place again."

Flame immediately got up as well, scratching his head in distress and hurrying after him. "Hey, don’t be angry!"

And so, the pavilion was left empty.

The slave finally breathed a sigh of relief. Glancing instinctively at the now-deserted pavilion, he hugged the trembling, tear-streaked child tightly in his arms.