The full moon rose high, casting pale light over the Thousand Lotus Sect. Tonight, the grand banquet for the visiting sects filled the main courtyard with music, laughter, and clinking cups.
Disciples, elders, and foreign guests gathered in rich silks and shimmering robes.
But Han Li stood in a corner, mop in hand, quietly scrubbing a spill near the wine table.
He blended in like a shadow no one cared to see.
Until the masked man arrived.
Tall, dressed in black robes trimmed with obsidian thread, the guest wore a smiling golden mask that reflected torchlight eerily. His cultivation couldn't be sensed. Not too strong, yet... bottomless.
Sect Master Yao greeted him warmly, but even he seemed cautious.
"An honored friend from the Whispering Veil Sect," Yao declared. "Here to deepen our ties."
The masked man nodded, voice smooth. "Grateful for your hospitality."
Han Li's eyes narrowed.
That voice… too calm. Too familiar.
He recognized the scent of sulfur—ancient demon refinement.
The man passed near Han Li, seemingly without noticing him.
Then paused.
They stood just feet apart.
The masked guest glanced sideways, eyes hidden behind gold.
Han Li didn't move. He slowly squeezed water from his mop, letting it drip in rhythmic taps.
Tap… tap… tap.
A whisper, barely audible, slid from under the mask.
"You're not dead after all."
Han Li smiled faintly without looking up. "Neither are cockroaches."
The masked man's gaze lingered before moving on.
But the tension hung like a blade in the air.
Later that night, when the guests had gone, Han Li stood alone in the empty courtyard.
He looked toward the mountain peaks where stars flickered restlessly.
"The game begins," he whispered.
Somewhere in the distance, a phoenix cried.