The announcement of the second semi–final did not ignite the stadium.
It settled it.
Sound didn't vanish all at once—it thinned. Conversations softened, breaths slowed, bodies leaned forward without realizing why. The white stone terraces seemed to absorb noise rather than reflect it, as if the arena itself understood what kind of exchange was about to unfold.
This was not a clash meant to dazzle.
It was one meant to endure.
---
From the White Lotus Kingdom, Yaochen moved.
Not stepped.
Moved—like a thought passing through still water.
His pale robes whispered against the stone, sleeves drifting with a rhythm that belonged more to breath than motion. Each step was placed without hurry, without hesitation, as though the distance to the center had already been walked many times before—inwardly.
When he reached the platform's heart, his palms met briefly at his chest.
No flourish.
No announcement.
Just a habit formed long before audiences existed.
