The stadium did not quiet all at once.
It happened in layers.
First, the low conversations faded—scholars finishing last-minute notes, nobles settling into their seats, cultivators leaning forward with sharpened interest. Then came the subtler silence—the kind born not from command, but from anticipation.
Twelve figures stood on the central platform.
Twelve presences.
Twelve philosophies waiting to speak.
Above them, the projection arrays shimmered brighter, stabilizing as the broadcast fully synchronized across the continent. In imperial halls, in sect plazas, in distant academies and remote teahouses, the same image appeared—
The Poetry Stadium of the Ink–Moon Kingdom.
And the twelve participants who would define this year.
An elder of the host kingdom stepped forward, his voice calm, steady, and clear enough to carry into every corner of the world.
