Han Yu closed the door of the rented inn room and immediately reached into his pouch.
He pulled out a yellow talisman etched with looping patterns and slapped it against the door. The paper glowed faintly, activating the sound isolating effect, sealing every whisper within the room. No one outside would hear him, not even a Core Condensation cultivator trying to eavesdrop.
Only after the light faded did Han Yu exhale in relief.
He set his bag aside, sat cross legged at the edge of the bed, and pulled out the plain wooden mask he had bought earlier.
It lay in his hand like an ordinary object.
Unpainted. Smooth. Polished by age. The holes for the eyes were shaped neatly, the wood grain running along the surface like quiet ripples. There was nothing mystical about its appearance, nothing menacing or sacred. It looked like something a street performer might wear.
And yet Han Yu knew it was not normal.
