Page 33 of Dynasty of the Wicked

He was a soldier of Huo, but she had thought that his cursed magic had gotten him as far into the battlefield as it did. But she could see now that he was skilled, even without his vicious magic.

“Surprised?” Wyer said, watching the battle uninterestedly. “You don’t seem to know who he is, do you?”

Zhi Ruo licked her chapped lips. She knew he was General Zheng’s son, but she didn’t know anything else about him.

A muscle on Wyer’s jaw throbbed. “When you think about it, it should be impossible. Let’s say he can fight just by using his hearing, but how can he hear in this crowd? And even then, hearing isn’t enough to predict the flight of arrows. Or the size of a weapon. So how does he do it?” Wyer’s lip curled back into a scowl, his harsh, blue eyes hardening. “But then I stopped caring about how it’s possible. You know why? Because he’s my prisoner now. And why does a master need to know how the dog does its tricks?”

Feng Mian continued to evade the attacks, even when there were two men fighting him simultaneously, but he was slowing down with fatigue. And it should have been expected; if Zhi Ruo remembered correctly, he had been a prisoner for a month. He was probably malnourished and out of practice.

Zhi Ruo clasped her hands together, hoping he would win against them. But how could he keep fighting when they didn’t give him a second of rest? Any time he defeated one, another jumped forward. Sometimes two. Or three.

In a split second, one of the soldiers’ swords nicked his shoulder. Feng Mian kicked the man in the chest and sent him hurtling, a look of rage washing over him. The other soldier that was fighting him stopped, grinning, and everyone cheered.

Zhi Ruo’s eardrums nearly popped with the shouting.

Feng Mian’s shoulders dropped and he breathed out heavily.

Zhi Ruo glanced around her in confusion. Why had everyone stopped?

“No,” Feng Mian roared. “He’smykill.”

“Then you should have tried harder,” Wyer said with a chuckle, raising his hand to someone in the distance.

She followed Wyer’s gaze to the wooden post where the old man was tied up. Fifty paces away from her, a man was drinking from a bottle of what appeared to be alcohol, while the men around him clapped his back and laughed. He then grabbed an arrow from a quiver and nocked it.

The archer swayed for a moment, steadied himself, and then aimed. The arrow released and shot through the air before piercing an inch away from the old man’s neck. A collective laugh filled the air. The old man stared wide-eyed at the arrow.

“Please, have mercy!” he shouted, pulling his body away from the wooden post even as the chains held him in place.

Zhi Ruo wanted to vomit, but her stomach was empty, and she could only taste bitter bile and salty blood in her mouth. She didn’t like the old man, but … but this was just cruel.

Feng Mian’s shoulders relaxed.

The army turned its attention back to Feng Mian, who began sparring with the two men once more. He fought with the same intensity as before, elegantly weaving between the men and whacking the men with the stick. One of the soldiers’ noses broke, a burst of blood gushing from the wound as he stumbled back. Feng Mian kicked him straight in the chest, sending him flying into the crowd, before he shoved one end of the stick into the other soldier’s eye socket. The man dropped his weapon and screamed in agony before Feng Mian yanked his stick back and smacked him across the face, drawing more blood.

Wyer ground his teeth together as the two soldiers groaned. He glanced at Frethirik, who watched the scene emotionlessly,as if he couldn't care less that one of his fellow soldiers was now blind in one eye.

Zhi Ruo bunched her hands over her skirts and the cloak, her attention never straying from Feng Mian.

“Frethirik,” Wyer snapped. “Go in and fight him.”

Frethirik gave a small nod, unsheathed his sword, and entered the ring. Feng Mian tilted his head to the side, as if to hear better, and yet the world was drowned with jumbled shouts.

Zhi Ruo’s breath caught in her throat when Frethirik, as swift as a bird, shot toward Feng Mian, both their weapons clashing together. Feng Mian was nearly thrown to the ground from the force, but he kept himself upright as he met Frethirik’s volley of attacks. They were both quick on their feet as their weapons met again and again, but it was clear Feng Mian’s movements were slower than his opponent’s. It only took a few more minutes before Frethirik’s blade slashed his bicep. Blood pooled over his sleeve.

Frethirik stopped, as did Feng Mian. The groups of soldiers clapped and turned their attention to the archer, who took another swig from the bottle, his face ruddy from the alcohol.

Zhi Ruo held her breath as he aimed and released the arrow. The old man screamed as it buried into his stomach. The crowd drowned away his cries of pain, and blood soaked through his clothes in seconds.

After the cheering calmed down for a bit, Feng Mian and Frethirik’s duel began once more. Zhi Ruo couldn’t stop her hands from trembling as she watched them silently, her heart thumping loudly in her throat.

She was in hell. That was the only explanation for the world she had stumbled upon. This cruel, cruel place was not meant for her. These men … They were monsters.

She felt lightheaded once more. Feng Mian’s arm was injured and bleeding, while the old man was slowly dying with an arrow lodged in his stomach. He wouldn’t be able to survive the wound. Would her turn be next? Would she fight like an animal in front of all these men? Or would she be strung up like the old man?

Zhi Ruo blinked back the tears stringing her eyes. She couldn’t break down now. She couldn’t let them break her in this moment. Her value was greater in enemy territory than it was in Huo, because here, she represented her people

Her fingers curled into fists. “Keep fighting!” she screamed to Feng Mian in their language—the language of their empire. “Don’t you dare let them win! You are a fighter! Fight! Kill him!”

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