The day arrived without thunder.
Without omens.
Without fate screaming its presence into the sky.
Morning sunlight poured gently over the Central City of the Ink–Moon Kingdom, washing the tiled rooftops in pale gold, slipping through carved balconies, gliding along streets already alive with movement. From dawn itself, the city breathed differently.
Today was not a day for conflict.
It was a day for voices.
For meaning.
For words that would travel farther than blades ever could.
The poetry stadium stood near the heart of the Central City, its circular structure open to the heavens. White stone rose in layered terraces, carved not with beasts or battle scenes, but with flowing script—verses etched so deeply they felt eternal.
There were no weapon racks.
No bloodstains.
No defensive arrays humming with hostility.
