Chapter 14 – When Pain Becomes Spectacle

Rain hadn't fallen on the capital, but the sky was cloaked in a gray mantle that seemed to foretell more than just a storm. The atmosphere in the Hall of the Crown was made of stone and judgment. Dark columns rose like silent sentinels, and the echo of General Narikami Gou's footsteps was swallowed by the sealed stained-glass windows. The torches flickered, as if afraid to speak too much.

The general, his cloak soaked and boots stained with metallic dust, knelt before the throne. He hadn't slept in days, but he didn't let it show. He simply clenched his jaw.

In front of the throne, the King of Hokori sat motionless, his face hidden behind a mask carved from celestial stone—without expression, without features. At his side, in total silence, stood Kyomu, the Royal Guardian. His black armor, marked with ancient engravings, revealed neither flesh nor humanity. He was more symbol than man. More sentence than shield.

"Speak, Narikami," ordered the King, his voice echoing from deep within the earth.

"My lord," began the general, still kneeling, "I have returned from Kinzoku no Hana. I bring news that cannot be ignored."

The King said nothing. He simply listened.

"An illegal tournament. Without royal sanction. Called the Night of a Thousand Eyes. Underground fights. Slaves used as spectacle meat. Nobles and merchants gambling. Even minors, forced to fight for entertainment. Torture, corruption... public brutality disguised as tradition."

A thick silence settled.

From behind one of the columns emerged a smiling shadow: Yodaku, the King's advisor, slid forth as if the marble itself had spit him out.

"And what part of this is news?" he said with irony. "There's always been blood in Kinzoku. Only the price changes."

"This isn't just blood, Yodaku. It's anarchy," growled Narikami, without looking at him. "They act without the Kingdom's seal. As if they own the people. As if they can decide who lives and who dies… as if they were the King."

That caught attention.

The monarch's mask turned ever so slightly. No one saw him move, but suddenly, his voice sliced through the hall like a dagger:

"My dogs killing each other is irrelevant. But if they believe they can spill the blood of my people without my permission..." he paused, "...then they believe they are my equals."

Kyomu took a single step forward. No one dared breathe.

"If Enketsu, the empire watching over our sins, finds out," Narikami continued cautiously, "we'll lose all credibility. They already believe we govern with barbarism. This would give them proof."

The King tilted his head slightly.

"Then we won't give them time."

He turned to his advisor.

"Yodaku."

"I'm listening," he replied with an exaggerated bow.

"Go. Investigate. Eliminate. Do it your way. But make it clear to everyone—nobles or slaves—that in Hokori... only one decides who bleeds and who doesn't."

Kyomu didn't move. He didn't need to. His presence alone sealed the decree with a silent threat.

Yodaku smiled, though tension flickered in his eyes.

"As you wish, Your Majesty."

Narikami lowered his head. His task was done... though he knew what followed would be crueler than any tournament.

Because when the King acts, it's not to save the people… it's to remind them that they belong to him.

---

Narikami Gou's boots struck the stone floor with the slow rhythm of a man burdened by thoughts heavier than his armor. The city of Kinzoku no Hana shimmered in the distance, but to him, it was nothing more than an open wound. A metallic flower blooming over corpses.

"We're rotten," he muttered to himself, climbing the stairs of the fortress that overlooked his district. "Rotten to the root... and the tree still casts its shadow."

He passed two soldiers, who stood at attention without daring to speak. They could tell the general had returned from the castle with a darker scowl than usual.

He opened the door to his private chamber, where the metallic scent of blood still lingered in the air.

There, tied to an iron chair, the noble Kuroga Tsutsumi barely breathed. His purple robe was in tatters, and one of his legs hung limp, as if his dignity had been ripped out along with his flesh.

"Do you understand now, Kuroga?" Narikami said, closing the door behind him. "You can't play at being King. Not even at being a shadow."

The noble barely managed to lift his head.

"M-money... the tournament... it's not just mine... there are others... everyone's involved..."

"I don't care about your network," Narikami cut him off dryly. "I just needed you to confirm it with your own tongue before I tore it out."

But he didn't. Not out of mercy.

He was simply tired of beating the truth out of people.

He walked to the window and looked out at the city.

"This is what we swore to protect? A nation that tortures for sport while kneeling before stone masks...?"

For a moment, his reflection in the glass looked like someone else. Someone younger. Someone who still believed.

---

The underground coliseum never slept. While some attendees feasted on meat poisoned with guilt or toasted with impossible liquors, far from the main arena, other types of shows unfolded.

In a makeshift ring, two skeletal slaves—one tongueless, the other blindfolded—faced off with rusted farming tools. The crowd shouted absurd instructions:

"Comb your hair with the rake, worm!" "Don't aim for the chest—go for the throat!" "The winner gets to polish my shoes!"

The blindfolded one fell first. But his rival, out of fear or habit, kept striking until his arm dislocated with a sickening crack. No one stopped the fight. No one wanted to.

A few steps away, a merchant wearing a porcelain mask displayed five young girls in a row, each with an iron collar around her neck.

"Latent Shinkon. Untrained, but obedient. High sale potential," he said in a mechanical tone. "Three of them haven't spoken since arrival. A guarantee for those seeking silence."

A client in a purple robe approached and pinched one girl's cheek.

"How much for the one who doesn't cry?"

The merchant smiled.

"For men like you, I offer a special price."

Farther away, in a shadowy lounge hidden behind black curtains, a private duel between two Shinkon users was underway. Both had agreed not to fully activate their powers—a test of endurance.

The first, covered in ritual scars, wielded a broken spear. His body was tattooed with names crossed out—defeated enemies. The second, younger, fought with cursed crystal blades. Every cut he inflicted harmed him as well.

The blood didn't flow—it splattered.

At the betting table, nobles from distant provinces laughed and threatened each other.

"I bet two noble slaves and a Crimson Lotus gem the younger one dies from his own Shinkon before the fight ends."

"I'll wager two war slaves," said another noble, a white monkey on his shoulder. "If I lose, I'll throw in the monkey."

The animal, as if understanding, lowered its head.

Elsewhere, a woman in a red dress and a crow mask sold tiny vials filled with liquids glowing in unnatural hues.

"Demigod blood. Split-soul powder. Human lament extract. Whatever you seek... I have it."

One customer asked to see something "unique."

She smiled, pulling out a vial containing what looked like a crystallized tear.

"This was wept by a child just before his Shinkon was destroyed. Its taste is eternal."

The man paid without hesitation.

---

Near a hallway where slaves were herded like cattle, a boy covered in punishment marks stared into nothing. He no longer trembled. No longer spoke. He simply breathed, as if that were a mistake he didn't know how to correct.

A guard kicked him.

"Move, scum."

And the boy moved.

---

From a high balcony, hidden among shadows, a figure wrapped in a gray cloak silently watched it all. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply listened.

And whispered voicelessly, as if every fight, every exchange, every crime... nourished him.

---

The announcer climbed the pedestal, his voice hoarse but ignited by the promise of chaos.

"Ladies and gentlemen! With this, the second phase of the event comes to an end! Thank you for your blood, your gold, and your screams!"

A dramatic pause.

"Rest. Eat. Cry if you must. Because tonight... tonight begins the third phase. And we promise it will be the most emotional, the bloodiest, and the most unforgettable of all."

The crowd erupted in cheers.

But in the shadows, Reiji and Bokusatsu's eyes remained fixed on the empty entrance. There was still no sign of Seimei.

And far from there, the sky dawned a deep red. As if the very earth knew what was coming.

---

Elsewhere in the underground coliseum, Aika gently wiped the dried blood from Donyoku's face. He was unconscious but breathing steadily. His chest rose like a live ember refusing to fade.

"You did well..." she whispered, soaking a clean cloth in warm water. "Not for winning. But for not losing yourself."

Donyoku's face relaxed slightly in his sleep. As if he heard her voice.

She carefully laid him on a makeshift mattress of cloth and straw, covered him with her cloak, and sighed. What moved her wasn't just camaraderie. It was something else. Deeper. More dangerous.

---

Reiji walked quickly through the gray corridors. The darkness was already thinning as the first rays of sunlight seeped through metallic cracks.

At his side, Bokusatsu followed with a furrowed brow.

"Where did Seimei go?" he asked, for the fourth time.

"I don't know. But if he doesn't return before the third phase begins, we might be in serious trouble."

Reiji stopped in front of a door, took a deep breath. His face showed a weariness that wasn't physical.

"Do you think I was wrong to bring them here?"

Bokusatsu glanced at him.

"I'm not the one to judge. But I've watched you. You've never doubted this much. And that... says more about you than about them."

---

In the Night of a Thousand Eyes, it wasn't the screams that hurt the most... but the silence of those who had already stopped being human.

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Thank you for reading this chapter of Chi no Yakusoku. If you enjoyed it, don't forget to follow for the next step in this dark blood-bound vow.