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.

To the others still wandering in panic, nothing had changed. They staggered blindly through the fog, unaware that judgment was already hovering above their heads.

A faint pulse followed.

Tokens that had never been displayed–never activated, never acknowledged–responded as if summoned by a higher authority. They emerged from cloaks, from storage rings, from concealment formations that had survived years of deception and mistrust. One by one, every remaining token revealed itself.

Then came the threads.

From each token, a green filament extended outward–thin, translucent, almost organic. It did not glow, nor did it hum with spiritual fluctuation. It simply connected, binding token to bearer with quiet inevitability.

Iron Clad bore two strands.

Blue Lotus Debt–two strands.

Bone Rage–two strands.

Blood Iron Fang–two strands.

Blood Feast–two strands.

Dual teams.

The thread bound token to token, partner to partner, forming visible lines of connection that could not be hidden or denied. In contrast, the solo members–Dusk Bite and Guilty Weasel–stood alone, their tokens unconnected, untouched by any thread of shared fate.

And the rest–

The newcomers were gone.

Not fallen. Not collapsed. No bodies remained, no bloodstains, no trace of struggle. They had been erased so thoroughly that even the land refused to acknowledge they had existed at all.

Only now did true realization begin to dawn.

More than fifty had entered with them. From the fall through the portal to this moment within the assessment, lives had vanished without ceremony or warning. Including the chosen ones, fewer than twenty remained.

Kiaria lowered his gaze.

The monochrome white of his irises brightened as the Eye of Insight opened fully, piercing past illusion and surface. Beneath the grass–beneath the fog–beneath even the shifting terrain itself–he finally saw it.

A Yin–Yang Array.

Perfectly balanced. Impossibly precise. Vast beyond comprehension, so immense that the section they had crossed was nothing more than a single mark within a greater whole.

Kiaria's breath slowed.

This was not an array designed for slaughter.

This was an array designed for sorting.

And the fog–

The fog was merely its voice.

Calculations unfolded instinctively in his mind. Lines of force. Rotations. Sacrificial nodes. Conversion paths. The craftsmanship was terrifying–not because of raw power, but because of its intentional subtlety and control.

Such proficiency…

How could anyone dismantle this alone?

How could even he?

For the first time since entering the Borderland, a weight pressed against Kiaria's chest–not fear, but something colder.

Concern.

Only he and the Chief possessed true vision here. Mu Long sensed danger but could not see it. Hylisi was protected, not perceptive. The others were blind.

And blindness, in this place, was fatal.

Kiaria lifted his gaze again.

The green threads were fracturing.

They were not snapping violently or dissolving outright. Instead, they thinned and faded, segment by segment, weakening precisely where one partner connected to another.

Confusion flickered across Kiaria's face.

He did not understand.

But the Chief did.

Mu Long did.

Both men exhaled quietly, almost in unison–a sigh not of relief, but of bitter recognition.

"What is that thread?" Kiaria asked softly, eyes fixed on the weakening bonds.

The Chief did not answer immediately. When he did, his voice carried no pride.

"Bad news," he said.

Mu Long nodded once. "Very bad."

The Chief's eyes never left the fog. "Those green threads… they aren't part of the Association's formation."

Kiaria's brows drew together.

"They're ours."

Silence followed.

Mu Long continued, voice low. "Hidden hair-strand formations. A Hell Tavern precaution."

"To test loyalty," the Chief added. "To detect vicious intent within a team."

Understanding sharpened Kiaria's gaze.

"The dual teams," the Chief went on, "were bound by that thread long before this assessment. It reacts when trust breaks. When intent turns predatory."

Realization struck clean and cold.

"They broke faith," Kiaria said.

"Yes," Mu Long replied. "Some already have."

The green thread on Iron Clad thinned further, now nearly translucent.

The Chief's jaw tightened. "Once the thread breaks completely, the team is no longer valid."

Kiaria turned slightly. "Then what?"

Mu Long did not hesitate.

"One must die," he said flatly. "The other takes the token."

Kiaria stilled.

"That rule was never published," the Chief said. "Never written. Never spoken openly. Only revealed if someone requests to disband a team–and even then, only inside the Hell Tavern's sealed chamber."

Mu Long added, "And once told, your mouth is bound by oath formation. You can never reveal it."

Kiaria looked back into the fog.

"They don't know," he said.

"No," the Chief confirmed. "They have no idea."

A brief pause followed.

"That's what makes this assessment terrifying."

Kiaria's attention snapped downward again.

The array shifted.

Yang energy–stable, circulating, protective–drained from one sector and slid into Yin, instant and absolute.

Not gradual.

Not negotiable.

Kiaria's pupils contracted.

Why?

He traced the flow backward through the array's logic, and then–

The trial token in his hand pulsed.

Words surfaced briefly upon its surface before settling into clarity.

The stop for a second had to pay with something in return.

Understanding struck like a blade.

Gen Jin.

The others.

They had stopped.

Even for a heartbeat.

And the array had answered.

Kiaria exhaled slowly. "They're in the Yin region now."

The Chief did not look surprised.

"Then the real assessment," Mu Long murmured, "has finally begun."

The fog stirred.

Kiaria stood still, Eyes of Insight half-withdrawn, no longer probing the array beneath but the figures trapped within it. The Chief's gaze never left Marquis Gen Jin's silhouette, faint and distorted behind layers of shifting mist. Even Mu Long, who rarely bothered to hide his disdain, was watching with a seriousness that bordered on impatience.

They were waiting.

Not for victory.For survival.

"The Marquis is the strongest among them," the Chief said quietly, as if afraid that raising his voice might tilt fate itself. "Strength, experience, instincts–he has all of it. If anyone can walk through this without breaking pace, it should be him."

Mu Long did not respond immediately.

The Chief continued, his tone heavier now, threaded with something closer to responsibility than hope. "And Guilty Weasel… she isn't just another hunter. She's earned her place. Countless hunts. Countless recoveries. Only this one remained–one more successful contribution, and Hell Tavern would have formally accepted her as a partner."

His fingers curled slowly.

"The Authority already marked her as my successor. If something happens to her here, Hell Tavern will not stay silent. They will question me. Not this land. Not the Association. Me."

The fog pulsed faintly, as if listening.

"I don't care what they become later," the Chief said, voice low and firm. "Betrayers. Enemies. Corpses in the future. Right now, I only want them alive. They just have to ignore it. Walk forward. That's all."

His jaw tightened.

"When will these idiots wake up from illusions?"

Mu Long let out a short breath–almost a laugh, but without humor.

"If Gen Jin doesn't interfere," he said flatly, "they might."

Princess Lainsa, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. Her expression hardened.

"Gen Jin?" Her lips curling faintly. "Tch. That scum won't let them go."

She finally turned his gaze away from the fog, eyes sharp with contempt. "That man killed Senior Wan Gu. Soft-spoken. Gentle. The only person in this empire who truly had no enemies."

Princess' voice dropped.

"Even criminals respected him. Even enemies hesitated around him. That kind of man doesn't exist twice."

Silence followed.

"And this scoundrel," She said, "killed him without hesitation. Tell me, Azriel–what kind of thought lets you place hope in someone like that?"

The fog churned.

"Whatever you're hoping for," Princess Lainsa concluded, "it's a waste of hope."

None of them replied.

Behind the fog, Marquis Gen Jin stood still–unaware of the weight being placed upon him, unaware that survival itself had become a judgment not only of strength, but of restraint.

The fog rippled again.

"Look," Hylisi said suddenly, her voice tight. "Guilty Weasel has drawn her whip."

All gazes tore away from Marquis Gen Jin and locked onto the lone woman within the fog. The thin silhouette of Guilty Weasel stood rigid, her arm lifted, a length of dark metal unfurling from what everyone had assumed was merely a waist belt.

"So that wasn't a belt," Diala muttered, blinking. "That explains a lot."

Kiaria glanced at her. "Shade, you still have time to think about that? That's unusual–for you."

Despite being able to see the movements clearly, the chosen ones remained powerless to interfere. The fog revealed actions, not intent. Whatever illusions Guilty Weasel faced, whatever reality she perceived, remained sealed from them.

"Who is she attacking?" Ru said, leaning forward. "Look at her right hand–no, that posture… it's not an attack stance."

Yi narrowed his eyes. "It's defensive. Instinctive. Like shielding someone behind her. A child. About that height."

Her expression twisted–rage surfaced first, raw and violent, then fractured into something uglier. Humiliation. Disgust. And beneath it all, a grief that looked old.

"No," Mu Long said slowly. "That's not simple rage. That's the fury of someone abandoned."

He turned toward the Chief. "Can we really trust her? Those reflexes–those gestures–they feel deliberate. Like infiltration. Like someone who's been preparing to tear Hell Tavern apart from within."

"Enough."

The Chief's voice cracked like a whip. He couldn't hold back anymore.

"She is Ailse's daughter," he said, anger burning through restraint. "And mine."

"I don't know whether we return alive and what is waiting for us next door. I can no longer bear this guilt anymore.

Silence slammed down.

No one breathed.

Even Guilty Weasel, far away within the fog, seemed to still for a heartbeat–as if something deep inside her had heard him.

Hylisi staggered back as though struck. Her hand, which had been gripping Azriel's arm throughout the ordeal, slipped free. Her face flushed crimson, then drained pale. Tears welled unbidden, spilling down her cheeks.

The bangles Kiaria had gifted her began to tremble violently.

"Lady Hylisi," Kiaria said quickly, releasing a controlled pulse of mist-white monochrome light. "Please–calm yourself."

The effect was immediate. Her breathing steadied, her trembling eased–but her eyes shattered. She turned abruptly, fled several steps away, and collapsed onto the grass, shoulders shaking as she wept.

Princess Lainsa moved without hesitation, following her.

Diala frowned faintly, confused. Chief and Lady Hylisi aren't even formally together… and she already has a son. Then why–?

Kiaria did not follow the thought.

His attention had snapped back to the fog.

To Guilty Weasel.

Something was wrong.

Her whip lashed again–but not toward anyone. The arcs were precise, measured, forming a lattice rather than strikes. The lashes should have hit someone. They should have torn flesh.

They didn't.

Impossible, Kiaria thought. Unless…

"Her attacks aren't meant to land," he murmured. "She's either trying to confuse the array–or the whip itself is acting."

A spiritual weapon?

Or something worse–something conscious?

"She's in the center," Ru said tensely. "They're all within striking distance. If she loses control–"

"She hasn't," Kiaria said. His eyes narrowed. "She knows exactly what she's doing."

And then–

Steel flashed.

A short blade erupted from the fog, punching cleanly through Guilty Weasel's chest.

"GUILTY–!"

"WEASEL–!"

The shout tore from the chosen ones as one.

Blood sprayed.

Her body jerked, staggered backward, whip clattering to the ground.

Chief Azriel froze.

"Gen Jin," Mu Long breathed.

Then, louder–ragged–"Gen Jin!"

"He did it," Mu Long snarled. "He actually did it. That rat… that bastard was right in front of us all along."

Rage, guilt, and self-loathing crashed into him at once. Before anyone could stop him, Mu Long raised his blade and severed his own left hand in a single brutal motion.

Blood splashed the grass.

"For my blindness," he said hoarsely. "For trusting him."

From within the fog, laughter exploded–wild, triumphant, deranged.

Gen Jin's voice rang out, unrestrained now.

"Die quickly, Weasel. This poison was made for you alone. First your eyes–blindness. Then your nerves slow, burst, rot. Five minutes."

He laughed again.

"I killed your mother with this dagger. Ailse. And her lover. The Chief's wife and daughter–both dead by my hand."

The words struck like thunder.

"You want to know who your father is?" Gen Jin sneered. "Azriel. The great Chief. The man you admired. You're his illegitimate filth. Now die knowing it."

Guilty Weasel coughed blood.

Then she laughed.

Soft at first.

Then clearer.

"Thank you," she said, voice weak but steady. "For telling me."

Her eyes lifted, sharp despite the poison. "I cleared this assessment long ago. I saw what you did. I only waited–for confirmation and to know who my father is."

Her whip rose.

This time, the earlier lashes became visible–dozens of them, overlapping, coordinated, precise.

They struck.

Gen Jin screamed as the whips carved into him, tearing muscle, shattering bone. His legs were severed cleanly, his body collapsing into the fog.

"You die now," Guilty Weasel whispered.

Her strength vanished.

She crawled toward the edge of the fog, fingers scraping forward until her palm broke through into clear air.

Azriel and Hylisi reached her together, pulling her free.

Hylisi fed her a Golden Berry Bead–Yang-aligned–pressing it gently to her lips.

Guilty Weasel clutched Azriel's hand.

"Are you too…?" she whispered.

She didn't finish.

She simply buried her face against him.

The fog trembled.

And deep within it, the assessment shifted again.

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