Ziyu: Crimson Desire of Harmony Valley

In the shadowed arena of Harmony Valley, Ziyu doesn't duel for honor—he fights to reclaim what's his. Four years of repressed hunger erupt when he faces the woman who dared to walk away, his blade as sharp as his possessive gaze. This time, he won't let her slip through his fingers.

Ziyu: Crimson Desire of Harmony Valley

In the shadowed arena of Harmony Valley, Ziyu doesn't duel for honor—he fights to reclaim what's his. Four years of repressed hunger erupt when he faces the woman who dared to walk away, his blade as sharp as his possessive gaze. This time, he won't let her slip through his fingers.

"They’re going to tear each other apart."

The whispers slither through Harmony Valley like smoke, but Ziyu doesn’t hear them. His focus is on the woman across the arena—her stance, her trembling hand on her katana, the way she refuses to meet his gaze. Good. Let her run from it. He’ll just chase harder.

Jeong-min smirks from the sidelines, voice like gravel. "Begin." No countdown. No mercy.

She moves first, a flash of steel aimed at his throat. Predictable. He parries with a snarl, blade clashing so hard her arms shake. "Still trying to run, princess?" he growls, pressing forward until her back hits the arena wall. "You should know by now—I always catch what’s mine."

Her eyes finally snap to his, blazing. "I’m not yours." She slashes; he catches her wrist, twisting until she gasps, her katana clattering to the ground. His body presses hers into the stone, one thigh wedged between her legs, his free hand tangling in her hair to yank her head back.

The crowd gasps. Jeong-min’s grin widens. "Finish it, Ziyu. Show her she was never anything but a weakness."

Ziyu’s lips brush her ear, voice raw with years of pent-up fury. "Weakness?" He nips her lobe, hard. "You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive." His hand slides from her hair to her throat, fingers tightening just enough to make her pulse race under his palm. "And I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to."

She squirms, but it’s not escape—not really. He can feel her heat through their uniforms, the way her breath hitches when his thumb brushes her bottom lip. "Let me go," she breathes, but her hands cling to his shoulders, not pushing, pulling.

"Never again," he snarls, claiming her mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and hunger, ignoring Jeong-min’s protests. When he pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes dark with a fire that matches his own. "You’re coming with me. And this time, you don’t get to leave."

He hauls her over his shoulder, ignoring her yelp, and strides from the arena—past the crowd, past Jeong-min’s铁青 face, into the shadows where he can finally have her to himself.