Since all these rules and superstitions are outdated, what's wrong with me indulging in some me

Then he grasped An Zhiyu's wrist.

Lu Changsheng's fingers gripped the inside of her wrist, with just the right amount of force to hold her arm in place.

An Zhiyu's body stiffened slightly, but she didn't flinch or pull her hand back. She simply watched Lu Changsheng quietly as he drew the first stroke on her arm with his blood-stained fingertips.

Lu Changsheng drew slowly, each stroke meticulous. His brows were slightly furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his breathing was shallow and rapid. The blood talisman didn't consume much spiritual energy, but it consumed a great deal of physical strength. Every stroke needed to be precise to the millimeter; the angle couldn't be off, the length couldn't be wrong, and the depth couldn't be too shallow. Too shallow and it wouldn't seal; too deep and it would damage the meridians.

An Zhiyu looked down as the blood-red lines slowly formed on her arm. Lu Changsheng's blood gleamed a dark red under the moonlight, contrasting sharply with the black, spreading lines. Red and black intertwined, collided, and confronted each other on her arm, like two snakes locked in combat.

"What is this?" An Zhiyu asked. Her voice was very soft, almost drowned out by the sound of the wind outside the window.

"Sealing runes," Lu Changsheng said without looking up, his fingers still drawing on her arm. "They're used to seal away corpse poison and evil energy. Your hand has been corrupted by the aura of death. Ordinary medicine won't work, and spiritual power can only suppress it temporarily. We need to use blood runes to lock those things in a localized area and prevent them from spreading further."

The black lines trembled violently under the impact of this energy. They retreated from Anzhiyu's forearm to his wrist, and from his wrist to the back of his hand. The black color faded, but they did not disappear.

They retreated to the center of Anzhiyu's hand, curled up into a ball, and were sealed by those blood-red runes.

Lu Changsheng withdrew his hand, took a step back, and looked at the blood-red runes on An Zhiyu's arm. The blood was still wet and glistened on her skin.

"alright."

His voice was a little hoarse, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, sliding down his nose and dripping onto his collar.

"The blackness won't spread any further; it should hold until we leave the instance."

An Zhiyu lowered her head, looking at the blood-red lines on her arm. From her wrist to her forearm, from arrows to curves, each line was drawn neatly, like a meticulously crafted work of art.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

Lu Changsheng took out a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the bloodstains from his fingertips. His movements were casual, as if he were doing something he had done countless times.

An Zhiyu looked up at him. His reflection was mirrored in her dark pupils.

An Zhiyu lowered her sleeves, covering the runes. The sleeves were wide, almost covering her entire forearm, with only a section of her fingers showing, which were slightly pale.

"Can you wield a sword?" Lu Changsheng asked.

An Zhiyu remained silent. She unfastened the sword from her waist, switched it to her left hand, and drew, unsheathed, swung, and sheathed the sword in one fluid motion, so fast that Lu Changsheng's eyes only caught a streak of silver light flashing through the air.

"Yes," An Zhiyu said.

Lu Changsheng nodded, turned and walked to the window. The curtains were still drawn, but he could feel the sky outside changing.

"It's almost dawn," Lu Changsheng said. "You should go back now."

"it is good."

An Zhiyu nodded, intending to leave, when there was a knock on the door.

"Knock knock knock—"

Three strikes, neither too light nor too heavy, with an even rhythm, and the intervals between each strike were incredibly precise.

The knocking still echoed in the air, like a pebble thrown into a deep well.

"Come in," Lu Changsheng said.

The door opened.

He was a waiter. Young, in his early twenties, wearing a dark gray uniform, the collar buttoned neatly, the cuffs without a single wrinkle. He carried a tray with two white porcelain teacups and a pot of tea on it. Steam was still rising from the spout of the teapot, the white vapor rising in wisps in the dim light of the corridor like tiny, dissipating threads.

His face wore a standard, well-trained, perfectly measured smile. The curve of his lips was just right, revealing exactly six teeth. His eyes were slightly curved, the lines at the corners of his eyes neither too fake nor too genuine. This smile seemed to have been measured by an invisible ruler, every detail incredibly precise.

"Mr. Lu." The waiter's voice was soft and gentle, like a thin layer of silk brushing against the air. "The master sent me to serve morning tea. Today's tea is fresh, transported from afar. The master said you might like it."

He carried the tray into the room, his footsteps so light that they made almost no sound on the carpet.

"The master also said," the waiter put down the teapot, took a step back, and put his hands at his sides, his posture respectful but not servile, "that tomorrow morning at seven o'clock, in the lobby on the first floor. The master said he has some important things to announce."

Lu Changsheng looked at the cup of tea but didn't reach for it. "What important matter?"

The waiter's smile remained unchanged. "The master didn't say. He just sent me to convey this message."

The waiter walked out the door. His footsteps faded into the distance in the corridor, from the third floor to the second floor, from the second floor to the first floor, and then disappeared.

The room fell silent again. Lu Changsheng walked to the table, picked up the cup of tea, and brought it to his nose to smell it. The tea was very fragrant, but he didn't drink it and put the cup back on the table.

Lu Changsheng didn't drink the tea. He placed the teacup back on the table, the porcelain bottom striking the wooden surface with a soft sound. The sound was exceptionally clear in the quiet room, like a needle falling to the floor.

An Zhiyu stood by the door, looking in the direction the waiter had left. The corridor was empty except for the wall lamps, which were lit every few meters, casting small patches of light on the deep red carpet.

"What do you think?" she asked.

Lu Changsheng picked up his teacup and poured the tea into a pot of withered flowers on the windowsill. The tea seeped into the cracked soil, making a soft hissing sound, like a sigh.

"He's testing us," Lu Changsheng said. "Not testing whether we'll have tea or not, but whether we're still around. He knows we know he knows what happened last night. He's waiting to see what we do next."

An Zhiyu paused for a moment. "What's our next step?"

Lu Changsheng turned around and looked at her. Morning light shone through the gap in the curtains, illuminating his face and the unfathomable blackness in his eyes.

"wait."

"What are you waiting for?"

"Wait for him to announce the rules."

An Zhiyu didn't ask any more questions. She walked to the window, pulled back a corner of the curtain, and glanced outside. In the East Garden, the slaves had already begun their work.

Some people were moving stones, some were pulling weeds, and some were leveling the road. The old man was gone; his spot was still empty, with grass roots he had pulled yesterday scattered on the ground like a pile of uncollected bones. Cola Novels, a professional novel website, provides the most comfortable reading experience.

She drew the curtains, turned around, and walked to the door. "I'm going back to my room."

"it is good."

An Zhiyu opened the door and went out.

Lu Changsheng stood by the window, listening to her footsteps go from the third floor to the second floor, from the second floor to the first floor, and then disappear. He didn't move. He just stood there, watching the increasingly bright morning light through the gap in the curtains, watching the light change from gold to white, from white to a blinding, inescapable white.

At nine o'clock in the morning, he walked out of the room.

The corridor was quiet. Most of the wall lamps were off, leaving only a few at the stairwell, their dim yellow light appearing weak and powerless against the daytime backdrop.

Lu Changsheng went down the stairs.

His steps were neither fast nor slow, each step landing precisely on the center of the stone steps. The sound of his shoes hitting the stone slabs echoed in the empty stairwell, one beat after another, like a heartbeat, like a pendulum, like a countdown.

The lobby on the first floor is different from the one upstairs.

Sunlight streamed in through the stained-glass windows above the main entrance, casting patches of red and blue light on the ground, like a shattered rainbow.

There are people in the lobby.

Not just one or two, but many. The slaves gathered in twos and threes, some squatting on the ground, some leaning against pillars, and some pacing back and forth.

They wore coarse cloth clothes with frayed cuffs and cloth shoes whose original color was no longer discernible. Their faces wore a standard, numb, and well-trained expression.

Xiao Yuheng came down the stairs.

He wore a dark black robe today, made of fine fabric and well-tailored, with dark silver embroidery on the collar and cuffs. His hair was tied back with a black ribbon, revealing his entire face.

There was no smile on his face.

That gentle, jade-like face, always bearing a perfectly timed smile, was now expressionless. Not anger, not sadness, not fear. It was emptiness. A complete, utter, utter emptiness, devoid of anything.

He walked to the center of the hall and stopped next to Lu Changsheng. The two stood together, one dressed in coarse cloth clothes and the other in a black robe; one had "92" written on his forehead and the other had "96" written on his forehead.

All eyes were fixed on Xiao Yuheng.

He spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it was clearly audible throughout the entire hall.

"Everyone."

He paused for a moment.

"I have gathered you all here today to announce something important."

The lobby fell silent. Absolutely, completely silent, a silence so profound that even the sound of breathing was amplified.

"This castle has existed for a very long time. Longer than any of you have been here. Longer than I have been here."

His voice was calm, as calm as a lake without wind.

"In this castle, you have scores, rules, masters, slaves, servants, and employees. You think these are for your survival. You think that as long as you please the audience, you can save your life."

He paused for a moment.

"You're all wrong."

Some people started to tremble.

"Grades are not for your protection. Grades are for your selection."

Xiao Yuheng's voice suddenly changed. It was no longer the warm, leisurely voice that sounded like someone savoring tea, but a colder, harder voice, like a hammer striking a stone.

"This castle doesn't need this many people. The audience doesn't need to see this many people either. They only want to see the best, the strongest, the most interesting. Everything else—is superfluous."

He stretched out his hand and pointed to the stained glass windows above the lobby. Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting red and blue patches of light on his finger.

"The ninth ceremony is now beginning."

When he uttered the words "Ninth-Order Ritual," a collective gasp filled the hall. Not just one person, but many; those who knew what those three words meant turned deathly pale in an instant.

It wasn't pale, but a white like paper, devoid of any blood.

The rules of the ceremony are as follows.

Xiao Yuheng's voice echoed in the hall, reflected, refracted, and amplified by the stone walls, surging in from all directions and engulfing everyone like a tide.

"First, no one may leave the castle during the ceremony."

"Second, no one may be attacked during the ceremony."

"Third, the scores will be updated in real time during the ceremony, every ten minutes. The ten people with the lowest scores will be sacrificed."

The moment the last rule was announced, someone in the lobby cried.

A young slave rushed out from behind a pillar. The number 13 was written on his forehead, placing him among the lowest ranks in the hall. His eyes were red, his face was smeared with tears and snot, and his lips trembled incessantly.

"I don't want to die—" his voice was shrill and piercing, "I don't want to die—I haven't gotten out yet—I haven't gone home yet—"

He rushed toward the gate.

No one stopped him.

He ran to the front door, grabbed the doorknob with both hands, and pulled hard. The door wouldn't open. He pushed it, but it still wouldn't open. He punched it, kicked it, and slammed it with his body. The wooden door made dull thuds, like a heartbeat, like drumbeats, like someone banging on a wall that would never be broken down.

"Open the door—open the door—please open the door—"

His voice grew softer and softer until it turned into a sob. His body slid down the door and sat on the ground, clutching his head with his hands, his shoulders heaving violently.

Nobody was watching him.

Everyone's eyes were fixed on their foreheads, watching the numbers still ticking away. With each point lost, someone screamed.

Lu Changsheng stood in the center of the hall, watching all of this.

He didn't move.

His gaze moved from one face to another, from one number to another. He saw a pair of eyes—not of fear, not of despair, but of something colder.

Calculation.

Those with slightly higher scores looked at those with lower scores with no sympathy or pity in their eyes, only a naked, undisguised, beast-like instinct.

live.

Regardless of whether others live or die.

Lu Changsheng withdrew his gaze.

He turned around and looked at Xiao Yuheng.

Xiao Yuheng remained standing in the same spot, his black robe appearing particularly somber in the light filtering through the stained glass windows. His face remained expressionless.

"Are you satisfied?" Lu Changsheng asked, his voice so low that only the two of them could hear him.

Xiao Yuheng turned to look at him. The glowing eye was facing him, its pupil reflecting his face.