The registration line for the Tournament of Kings wrapped three times around the outer plaza of the Grand Coliseum by the time I arrived, a chaotic mix of hopeful Guild adventurers, liveried house champions, and at least a few competitors whose bearing suggested they'd traveled from kingdoms I hadn't even found on a map yet.
I appraised the crowd idly while waiting, partly out of habit and partly out of genuine curiosity about what kind of talent this event had actually drawn. Most registered as unremarkable — solid Bronze or Silver-rank fighters with the kind of stats that would have looked impressive to anyone who hadn't spent a trillion years redefining what the word "impressive" meant. A few stood out. A towering woman near the front of the line carried herself with the unmistakable bearing of actual Gold-rank experience. A pair of identical twins argued quietly in a language my Crystal of Eldoria translated as a southern beastkin dialect, both radiating a controlled, coiled speed that marked them as genuine threats in a straight fight.
And then there was the figure near the very front of the line who simply didn't register at all.
I appraised him twice, assuming an error, and got the same result both times.
[ Name: -- ]
[ Notes: Appraisal blocked. ]
Blocked. Not merely hidden the way a skilled cultivator might mask their aura — actively, deliberately blocked against a skill I'd been assured, by the System itself, was Unlimited. I'd never once encountered that in this world before, not from Malakar, not from anyone.
The figure wore a plain grey mask covering the upper half of his face, unremarkable traveling clothes, and a sword sheathed at his hip that looked, if anything, deliberately unimpressive. He must have felt my attention, because he turned briefly, meeting my eyes through the mask's narrow slits, before turning back to the registration line without any other reaction at all.
I filed the encounter away carefully. Whoever — or whatever — that was, they were either exceptionally skilled at avoiding a divine-tier information skill, or they possessed a version of "Hide It" every bit as thorough as my own. Neither option struck me as something to investigate carelessly in the middle of a crowded public plaza.
By the time I reached the registration table, a harried clerk barely glanced up before sliding a form across the counter. "Name, rank, and sponsoring house or Guild affiliation, if any."
"Lukas Gigonos. Bronze rank, Adventurers' Guild."
The clerk paused, actually looking up this time. "Bronze rank entering the Tournament of Kings? Not that it's forbidden, understand, just — unusual. Most competitors this deep in the bracket are Silver or above."
"I like a challenge," I said, which was, in its own strange way, entirely true.
She shrugged and stamped my form. "Your funeral. First bout's in six days — full bracket gets posted at the Coliseum gates tomorrow morning. Good luck, Bronze rank."
I stepped away from the table and nearly collided with Kael Drenmoor, who'd apparently been waiting nearby with an enthusiasm that bordered on physically vibrating.
"You actually did it," he said, grinning. "I half-expected you to talk yourself out of it overnight."
"I don't talk myself out of things easily," I said. "Bad habit, apparently."
"Good habit, from where I'm standing." Kael fell into step beside me as we made our way out of the crowded plaza. "Half the noble houses in this city are already placing bets on the bracket, and I intend to make an embarrassing amount of coin wagering on you the moment the pairings post. Consider it interest on the favor I still technically owe you."
I thought about the masked figure in the registration line, and the sharp, unfamiliar blankness where my appraisal should have found a name.
"Kael," I said. "Do you know anything about a masked competitor who registered ahead of me? Grey mask, plain clothes, didn't announce a house or Guild affiliation?"
Kael's easy expression sobered slightly. "The Ghost, people are already calling him. Nobody knows where he's from. He showed up in the city about a month ago, entered three separate underground fighting circuits, and won every single match without ever once removing that mask or saying more than a few words to anyone. Some say he's a disgraced noble hiding his identity. Others say he's something considerably stranger."
A month ago. Roughly the same timeframe as the first strange reports from the eastern border, and the shadows that had started watching Valoria's tree line.
"Considerably stranger," I repeated quietly. "Yeah. I think you might be onto something there."