The fog did not thin. It reorganized.
Marquis Gen Jin stood among them, frozen in place as the fog shifted its structure around the remaining figures. Dusk Bite. Iron Clad. Blood Feast. Guilty Weasel. Bone Rage. Blood Iron Fang. Blue Lotus Debt. The names did not arrive with sound or ceremony–they simply appeared, as if the land itself had grown tired of concealment.
They were not spoken.
Not announced.
Not carved into stone.
They wrote themselves into existence.
Above each remaining individual–or pair–a faint script burned within the fog, hovering just beyond reach. The writing was sharp, unmistakable, absolute. Team names and solo designations manifested together, exposing identities that had never been revealed–not in contracts, not in the Hell Tavern, not even in private negotiations whispered behind sealed doors.
Only the chosen six could see them.
