The sun was already low when the stadium filled again.
Its light no longer fell directly from above, but slanted across the white stone terraces, turning ink-carved verses along the walls into long shadows. Lanterns had been lit in quiet preparation, their glow soft and amber, waiting for dusk to complete its descent.
The air felt different now.
Not tense.
Resolved.
Across the Poetry Stadium, spectators returned to their seats—not with excitement, but with gravity. Scholars spoke less. Cultivators leaned forward unconsciously. Nobles folded their hands instead of applauding prematurely.
This was no longer about competition.
This was about witnessing something conclude.
Above the arena, projection arrays shimmered steadily, broadcasting the final to all Ten Kingdoms.
In royal halls. In sect plazas. In roadside teahouses.
The world waited.
In the Verdant River Kingdom, an elderly official adjusted his robe and murmured,
"This final will not be remembered for who wins."
