Morning arrived quietly in the Central City.
Not with bells.
Not with announcements.
Just light.
Soft sunlight filtered through gauze curtains, slipping across carved wooden floors and polished stone walls. Outside, the city was already awake—footsteps echoing through streets, shop shutters lifting, voices murmuring with anticipation rather than urgency.
The tournament would begin tomorrow.
Today belonged to waiting.
The Inn
The inn where the Sanatan Flame Sect had taken residence stood near one of the inner avenues—luxurious, but not excessive. Its architecture matched the city's temperament: elegant lines, pale stone, dark wooden beams etched with subtle ink patterns. No guards at the doors. No defensive formations flaring.
Just quiet confidence.
Inside, the corridors were still.
Most doors remained closed.
Behind one of them—
Shaurya sat cross-legged near the window.
