The journey had begun at dawn. The sky was still gray, the sun barely daring to rise over the ruined rooftops of Reloy.
William walked ahead, silent and unreadable, his long coat swaying with the cold breeze. Behind him, Caen and Jane followed… arguing, as always.
"You walk like you're trying to impress the ghosts," Jane muttered with a smirk, adjusting the strap of her satchel.
"And you talk like someone who's never won a fight without hiding behind a book," Caen shot back, spinning a small knife between his fingers.
"Books last longer than swords," she said without missing a beat.
"Swords end books," he replied.
Their bickering echoed across the empty road. William said nothing. He didn't even glance back. His mind was already a thousand miles ahead — in the heart of the enemy's game.
When night fell and they made camp by a dead riverbed, Caen broke the silence.
"Hey," he called out, his tone unusually curious, "Where exactly is this competition again?"
Jane, already spreading out a small map by firelight, answered with a faint sigh:
"Hyang. A city just outside the Imperial Capital."
Caen raised an eyebrow.
"That close to the throne? That's bold… even for a sect gathering."
Jane looked up at him, shadows dancing on her face.
"They want attention this time. They're not hiding anymore."
William stood in the distance, watching the stars. When the fire grew dim, he finally spoke — but not to them.
"Let them show themselves. It's easier to burn something when it stops pretending it's not already on fire."
**
Before reaching Hyang, they stopped by a grove hidden between cliffs, where Roy had hidden the final items: a set of black masks.
Smooth, featureless, and cold to the touch.
Each of them took one.
As William placed his mask over his face, something shifted in the air — not magic, not illusion. Identity dissolved. They were no longer themselves. They were now ghosts among ghosts.
**
By the time they reached the city's edge, Hyang pulsed with life.
Lanterns floated in the air like fallen stars. Banners of every color hung from the rooftops. Travelers, warriors, and spies had all come under the same lie: a "festival of strength."
But the real game was darker.
The Sect Competition had returned.
**
Their first stop was a tavern carved into stone, nestled between two old watchtowers. The sign above the door had no name — just the image of a cracked crown.
Inside, the air reeked of sweat, spice, and secret.
Masked figures sat at every corner, eyes watching, hands close to weapons.
Jane leaned over the table after they ordered watered-down wine.
"Eyes up," she whispered. "This city's louder than it looks."
Caen sipped his drink, scowling.
"And sharper."
William simply stared at the flame of the candle before him.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered a name — not his, but the one he hadn't heard since the old circle.
A name the ancient king had spoken.
And in his gut, William knew:
The game had already begun.