The morning of the second match arrived not with the warmth of anticipation but with the sharp tension of a blade unsheathed under clouded skies.
Jinmu stood in silence as the faint light of dawn filtered through the wooden screens of the inn's window, casting narrow shadows across the floor. His hand hovered over the porcelain basin of cold water, not to wash, not to cleanse, but to feel something grounding. Something real.
His mask remained untouched on his face.
The temptation to remove it had come and gone throughout the night like the passing wind—soft, persistent, but ultimately ignored. Even now, inside the privacy of his room, with no eyes to watch, he couldn't bring himself to take it off. It wasn't just a disguise anymore. Not just a precaution. It was armor. A boundary. A shield between him and a world not yet ready.
No one can know. Not until I'm ready.
A knock came on the door, light and brief, followed by the familiar voice of Eun Haria from beyond the panel.
