The bells of Jadehaven rang for nine breaths. From the harbor to the upper tiers, from watchtowers to dormitories, the sound carried on the wind with the solemn weight of authority.
At the very top of the Seaborne Crown, just beneath the lightning-shaped insignia carved into the eastern wall of the Stormrise Bastion, the city's banners were unfurled. Stormguard in armor lined the terrace, still and disciplined.
Altan stood before the assembled heralds. He wore no armor, only a high-collared robe of midnight blue, with silver trim marking his station. His posture was straight, hands resting lightly on the edge of the stone balustrade. Stormwake stood behind him to the left. Nivak stood to the right. Below, the city gathered in the plazas and tiers.
The storm banners rippled once, and then the horns sounded.
Altan's voice echoed outward, amplified by runes carved into the stonework of the Bastion walls.
"To the Eastern Realm, and all who hear this call..."
He paused as the sound settled.
"The Stormguard invites warriors, scholars, mages, and cultivators to the first Grand Martial Trials. Held at the Seaborne Crown. Three weeks from this day."
A murmur swept the plaza far below. From balconies and bridges, citizens leaned forward.
"Trials shall be held in open arena and sealed chamber. Witnessed by judges and overseen by oath-bound arbiters. Rewards shall be given. Not coin. Not titles. But entry."
He let the word hang in the air.
The top ten victors will receive coins, cultivation manuals, martial arts tomes, a weapon and armor crafted by Stormguard smiths, and the choice to join our ranks. Not as vassals. Not as guests. As Stormguard.
The crowd roared.
Even those far from the plaza would hear the waves of sound bouncing off the sea walls. Fishermen paused their nets. Market workers stopped mid-haul. The city was listening.
Altan raised a hand and the noise faded.
"Know this. We do not seek the most powerful. We seek those with discipline, purpose, and clarity of heart. The contest will test more than strength. Those who come in deception will be seen. Those who come for blood will be turned away."
He lowered his hand and turned toward the heralds. "Begin distribution."
Scrolls sealed with obsidian wax were already being carried by mounted messengers and messenger birds have already been dispatched. Within hours, the invitations would reach the nearby cities. Within days, they would reach the Eastern Realm's outer edges.
Altan had already signed letters personally addressed to the heads of martial sects, noble houses, clan elders, and independent orders. These were not limited to allies. Even sects and schools unaffiliated with the Stormguard, even those who had once stood apart or silent, would receive word. Altan knew that if they came, they could be seen. If they refused, their absence would still speak.
And though Altan had allies such as the Free Cities League, the Steppe Gale Nation, the Virak'tai, the Skarnulf Clans, the Freedmen Realm, and the desert-born Zhaqarin, this event was for the realm itself.
This would be a theatre. And every actor would show their face on the stage.
It was time to see who would answer the call.
Beyond the city walls of Jadehaven, in the growing outskirts near the southern coastal road, five Dazhum agents gathered inside a low-timber structure behind a tanner's workshop. Smoke seeped through its slatted roof. The room smelled of rope oil and dried blood.
A map was pinned to the table. Strings and red markings traced paths through the Freedmen Realm to the coast.
"They arrive in six days," Veilrix said. "Five agents. All cultivators. All trained. Two are peak-body refiners. One is awakened in breathfire arts. The others will adapt."
Velk leaned over the table. "Cover names?"
"Prepared," said Rhak. "I've forged four clan backgrounds, one foreign sect exile, two minor temple disciples. All of them believable. Quiet. Nothing that draws pre-game attention."
"They'll compete?" Velk asked.
Veilrix nodded. "That's the plan. They'll enter the martial contest. Reach the final bracket if they can."
"And if they win?" Velk asked.
"Then they take the prize. Stormguard entry. This year's recruitment has no noble gatekeeping. They want skill, not name."
Rhak exhaled. "Infiltration by acclaim."
"Yes," Veilrix said. "And if they lose, they'll ensure survival. Just one agent inside the ranks will be enough. Inside the ranks, we gain what spies never could. Real deployment data. Routes. Orders. Weaknesses."
Velk frowned. "And no one suspects foreign entry?"
"Dozens of sects will arrive from across the coasts. Some from lands that haven't even signed accords. The Stormguard won't catch them all."
She pointed to the bridge marker just beyond the Seaborne Crown's outer island.
"Our meeting point is near the west supply road. We'll escort them across using trade permits. From there, the arena halls will register entrants. We just have to clear the path."
Rhak rubbed his thumb over a sigil-etched coin. "And what happens if one of them gets too far, too fast?"
"Then we make sure they remember who placed them," Veilrix said. "Every move they make from here will serve the Dazhum cause."
Veilrix, southern handler of the Dazhum network, stepped away from the table.
"You all have your task. We will meet again at the designated safe house."
Outside, a bell rang. A coastal barge had arrived.
Inside, the flame dimmed to a flicker.
The Crown would soon open its gates.
But not all who entered had come to bow.
High above the low-timber workshop where the Dazhum agents spoke, a cluster of darkened leaves shifted without wind. Hidden among them were three tiny insects, motionless yet watching. Each one pulsed with faint spiritual light. They were bound insects, marked with a sigil known only to the Whispershell Clan.
Far from the workshop, across the city's edge, Nivak watched from a secluded overlook. His body was still, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. Around him, three other QORJIN-KE agents crouched in silence.
Nivak opened his eyes.
"Rhak is our target," he said. "Have the second team set up the next phase."
One of the agents nodded and vanished down the ridge path.
The interior of Rhak's private refuge was silent. It lay beneath a merchant's compound, hidden behind layered wards and scent-blocking runes. The room was bare except for a floor mat and a shelf of scrolls.
A single spider descended from the ceiling's edge. Its eyes shimmered blue. It dropped silently, touched Rhak's exposed neck, and bit.
Rhak's body convulsed once. Then froze.
Moments later, the door slid open without a sound.
Nivak stepped inside. His eyes adjusted immediately to the dark. He walked past Rhak's paralyzed form and knelt beside him.
"Too easy," he said.
He placed a palm on Rhak's chest. A ripple spread from his fingertips. The air behind Nivak shimmered.
From within his sea of mind, a black carrion beetle emerged. It phased from spirit to flesh and crawled from his palm. Small, oily, and sharp-legged, it skittered up Rhak's face and into his nostril.
Rhak's eyes twitched. Veins bulged. The beetle tunneled in.
Inside, it found brain tissue and began to feed.
Five minutes passed.
Nivak's eyelids fluttered. Visions poured into him: maps, names, passwords, memories of meetings, and buried contingencies. He absorbed everything Rhak knew.
The beetle emerged slowly, dragging threads of glistening blood like roots torn from earth. It returned to Nivak's hand, then vanished into his sea of mind.
Nivak stood.
"Now the second step."
He unsheathed a thin, curved blade. With surgical precision, he sliced a palm-sized portion of Rhak's flesh from his upper back. Blood pooled, but the paralysis held.
Holding the piece, Nivak invoked an ancient whisper technique.
His body rippled. Bones cracked and rearranged. His skin shifted hue. His jaw narrowed. His voice changed.
Within five minutes, Rhak stood again, though it was Nivak beneath the face.
He turned to the shadows.
"Take the body," he ordered. "Preserve it. Have it sent to the Stormborne Crown. We'll use it in Phase Three."
Two agents stepped forward, cloaked and masked. They wrapped Rhak's body in a sealing cloth and vanished into the night.
Now within Rhak's skin, Nivak returned to the usual routes. He wore Rhak's scent, held his memories, moved like he moved. Even the mana signature around him had shifted to match.
He waited for the next Dazhum meeting.
He knew the passphrases.
He knew the hidden signals.
Everything he needed had been fed to him, chewed and swallowed by the beetle.
And the Dazhum had no idea that one of their own was already gone.
Author's Note: On "Parodos"
The word "Parodos" comes from the Greek πάροδος (parodos), meaning "an entrance" or "a way through." In ancient Greek theatre, it refers specifically to the first entrance of the chorus, when they step onto the stage and speak directly to the audience, establishing the tone, stakes, and deeper truths of the unfolding drama.
In this chapter, Parodos marks the beginning of a grand performance, one orchestrated by Altan and the Stormguard, where warriors from across the realm are called to participate. But this is no ordinary trial. It is, in truth, a stage. A carefully constructed theatre where appearances deceive and where every participant becomes both actor and audience.
At the same time, beneath the surface, a second performance unfolds. It is a game of masks, infiltration, and counter-infiltration. As Nivak dons the skin of his enemy, the lines between roles begin to blur. The chapter itself becomes a layered Parodos, introducing not just the characters but the concealed war playing out behind the curtains.
This is not the play's climax. It is the entry. The moment the chorus steps forward to warn the world that nothing is as it seems.