Chapter 42: That's Just Jing Jing.

BOOM.

A sudden force—strong, but controlled—shook the arena as a figure dropped from the highest bleachers, landing effortlessly between Xuan Jing and Guŏ Suàn. Dust swirled from the impact, caught in the dimming afternoon light.

The arena, still breathless from the previous fight, fell into absolute silence.

The man stood tall, lean yet undeniably powerful, his long, dark robes billowing slightly from the force of his landing. His crimson eyes burned with an unnatural sharpness, as if seeing through flesh and straight into one's very essence. His presence was suffocating. Heavy. Marked.

The audience inhaled sharply.

Xuan Jing and Guŏ Suàn?

They barely reacted.

At best, they looked mildly annoyed.

Tch.

The air between them grew colder, sharper—though neither spoke, their matching scoffs were practically synchronized.

What the fuck does he want?

Xuan Jing barely shifted his weight, the tilt of his head betraying only a fraction of his thoughts. Guŏ Suàn, hands slipping casually into his sleeves, watched with a half-lidded gaze.

They weren't impressed.

The Marked, seemingly unfazed, merely raised a brow in mild amusement. He had seen every single person in this coliseum scramble for his attention, practically begging for even a glance. Yet these two—

They looked at him like he was an inconvenience.

The man exhaled, his voice low and commanding. "First of all, my name is—"

They weren't listening.

Before he could even finish, Xuan Jing—without hesitation—turned around.

He didn't give a fuck. He wasn't here for attention, wasn't here to be acknowledged by some half-interesting Marked. He didn't need recognition. He wasn't interested in some bastard's approval.

The action was unmistakable. A clear dismissal.

A waste of his time.

Guŏ Suàn, still watching, felt his fingers twitch.

His hand half-raised as if—

As if to reach out, to grab, to—

But he hesitated.

His fingers curled, flexed once before falling back to his side.

His lips barely parted before he swallowed whatever words had been forming and let out a soft sigh.

He shot the Marked a single, lazy glance.

Then he turned away too.

Uninterested.

The Marked's expression flickered.

…What?

The murmuring of the crowd swelled—gasps, whispers, disbelief.

They just—

They just walked away?

They just ignored a Marked?*

The man stood there, momentarily stunned, lips parting as if to say something—only to stop. His crimson eyes gleamed with a newfound amusement. Interesting.

The corners of his mouth twitched, though whether it was a smirk or something else entirely was unclear.

"Let's get out of here," Xuan Jing said, voice cool, to his friends and servants.

Wei Lin exhaled, smoothing his sleeves dramatically. "Finally. I was getting bored."

Feng Hao gaped at him. "What do you mean 'finally'—Jing Jing just ignored a Marked—"

Jiǎn Lí, who had remained silent up until now, chuckled lightly. "He didn't ignore him. He dismissed him."

Feng Hao turned, stunned. "Isn't that worse?!"

Yíng Yǐng, grinning like an absolute menace, swung an arm over Feng Hao's shoulders. "Relax, kid. You'll get used to it. That's just Jing Jing."

Guŏ Suàn followed behind, footsteps slow, his gaze lingering slightly before finally tearing himself away.

The Marked watched them go.

He stood amidst the wreckage of their battle—the cracked stone, the broken ground, the lingering dust, the raw, untouched power still thrumming in the air.

The corner of his lips finally curled.

Interesting.