Time passed, and the store remained lively.
In the corner of the store, four disciples sat hunched over, their faces tense with focus. They looked exactly how readers do when they hit a cliffhanger chapter at 3AM.
The type of scheming that erupts when the main character finally learns the enemy's secret technique and the entire comment section turns into a battlefield of theories and panic.
They had all come to a perfectly mutual, perfectly silent agreement.
Not. A. Word. To. Their. Elders. Sect Masters.
"Why?" you ask?
Simple.
More competitors = less chance of winning.
And with the storekeeper putting a whole tournament on the line with real prizes?
That was practically life and death stakes right there.
One mention to their Sect Master and the next day they'd have a queue of uncles, aunties, elder cousins, their master, two pillar elders, and probably one of the ancestors crawling out of a portrait ready to take the cue stick and sweep the whole bracket.
