The silence Shaurya summoned did not shatter.
It settled.
Across the Poetry Stadium, tens of thousands of listeners—cultivators, scholars, nobles, common citizens—found themselves holding their breath without knowing why. Above them, the projection arrays hummed steadily, transmitting the same image to all Ten Kingdoms.
The elder of the Ink–Moon Kingdom did not rush him.
He waited.
Because something instinctive told him—
This was not a moment to interrupt.
Shaurya stood at the center of the platform.
Hands relaxed at his sides.
Sunglasses still in place.
Not hiding.
Choosing distance.
Shaurya stood still.
He did not posture.
He did not perform.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm.
Not soft.
Not loud.
Balanced.
"This poem is about
who you were
before the world spoke to you."
Then He began.
"Before I was named,
I existed.
Not as a thought,
not as a role,
not as a question—
but as breath
moving without effort.
I did not seek purpose.
