The 'Registry Office' of the Sovereign’s Tournament was not a tent. It was a structural impossibility—a three-story pavilion of crimson silk and floating iron rafters that had been grown, rather than built, into the side of a basalt cliff. Inside, the temperature was a perfect, antiseptic sixty-eight degrees, maintained by freezing-talismans that hummed with the steady drone of a server farm.

  Han Wei walked through the entrance, still holding his towel over one shoulder. He was wearing a fresh pair of Park Sect athletic shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘I Survived the Rio Negro and All I Got Was This Lousy Qi-Awakening.’

  He was grinning at a video of a golden retriever trying to eat its own reflection when they reached the primary reception dais.

  The man behind the desk made the armored warrior outside look like a friendly neighbor. He was tall, gaunt, and wore robes of stiff, starched brocade that seemed to be made of dried blood. His fingers were long and stained with ink—not regular ink, but the shimmering, acidic ink used for soul-binding contracts.

  He was the High Registrar of the Iron Blood Pavilion. On his world, his word could delete a sect from existence with the stroke of a brush.

  "Han Wei," the Registrar said, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. He didn't look up from a massive scroll of vellum. "You are six hours, twelve minutes, and forty-four seconds past your designated entrance window. According to the Mandate of the Seven Heavens, Article Four, Section Nine: 'Any participant failing to manifest at the designated temporal coordinate shall be subject to a primary merit-drain. Your starting Qi-allowance for the first round will be halved. Your team’s gear-allocation is forfeit. You will enter the Well as a PENITENT.'"

  He finally looked up, his eyes two cold, grey stones. He expected Wei to pale. He expected the 'Median' upstart to fall to his knees and beg for mercy.

  Instead, Wei let out a soft snort of amusement. "Sarah, did you hear that? They have a 'Penitent' tier. Is that like a basic membership, or more of a 'limited-access' trial?"

  The Registrar’s face turned a dangerous shade of mulberry. "You dare mock the Mandate? You are a guest on this world, 'Citizen.' You are allowed here only because the Sovereigns require a representative of the native dust. You have no rank. You have no standing. You have only the mercy of the Iron Blood Pavilion."

  Sarah stepped forward. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't angry either. She had that look in her eyes that Han Wei recognized from the time a multinational conglomerate had tried to sue the Park Sect for trademark infringement on the word 'Aura.'

  It was the look of a predator who had found a hole in the fence.

  "I’m sorry, I didn't catch your name," Sarah said, tapping her tablet with a sharp, rhythmic click.

  "I am High Registrar Valerius of the Iron Blood Pavilion!" the man roared.

  "Right. Valerius. Good to meet you," Sarah said, her voice dripping with the terrifying politeness of a Senior Vice President of Human Resources. "I’m Sarah. Head of Administration for the Park Sect. And I’ve been reviewing your 'Mandate' for the last four thousand miles."

  She swiped a finger across her screen, and a holographic projection of the tournament rules—translated into perfect, legally-binding English—flickered into the air between them.

  "Article Four, Section Nine," Sarah quoted, her eyes scanning the text with a speed that shouldn't have been humanly possible. "You’re absolutely right. It mentions lateness penalties. However, did you read the sub-clause regarding 'Environmental Hostility and Unforeseen Planetary Shifts'?"

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Valerius blinked. "There is no such sub-clause."

  "Oh, there is. Under the 'Warden’s Covenant' of the High-Magic Era," Sarah said, her smile broadening in a way that felt like a razor blade. "See, according to the Covenant, any tournament held on a 'Non-Integrated World'—that’s us—must account for the local gravity, atmospheric density, and, most importantly, the unstable state of the world’s primary meridians during a Qi-surge. My client’s delay was caused by a massive, uncontrolled environmental fluctuation in the Rio Negro basin. Specifically, an encounter with Class-4 Qi-mutated fauna that your scouts failed to secure or document."

  "That is... the forest is dangerous! That is your problem!" Valerius shouted.

  "Actually, according to the safety protocols outlined in the 'Inter-Sect Harmonization Act'—which the Iron Blood Pavilion signed three hundred years ago—it is the host’s responsibility to provide a secure corridor for all participants entering the Well of Life," Sarah said, her voice rising in a perfect, measured crescendo. "By failing to clear the caiman-nest, you have created a Hostile Environment. Not just in the mystical sense, Valerius. In the OSHA sense."

  "Who is this... O-SHA?" Valerius stammered, his hand hovering over his soul-ink brush.

  "The Occupational Safety and Health Administration," Sarah said, stepping around the desk, invading the Registrar’s personal space with the confidence of a tax auditor. "And believe me, they have very specific guidelines regarding the presence of forty-foot, Qi-breathing reptiles in a designated workplace path. If you penalize my client, I will file a formal grievance with the Sovereign Council regarding 'Gross Negligence' and 'Failure to Provide Adequate Signage on a Class-A Waterway.' I have the video evidence. It’s currently at fifty million views. Would you like to see the comments? Most of them are asking why the Iron Blood Pavilion is so bad at pest control."

  Wei leaned back against a support-pillar, watching a video of a cat falling off a sofa. He let out a loud, genuine laugh.

  "I am one with the river, Valerius," Wei said, not looking up. "The river doesn't care about your merit-drain. But Sarah... Sarah cares a lot. You should probably listen to her."

  Valerius was quivering now. His starched brocade robes were rustling with his agitation. He looked at the holographic text, then at the tablet in Sarah’s hand. He saw the 'Viral' numbers ticking up on the screen—a power he didn't understand, but could clearly feel.

  "The... the Mandate is absolute!" he tried one last time, his voice cracking.

  "The Mandate is a contract," Sarah corrected him, leaning in close. "And in New York, we eat contracts for breakfast. Now, I suggest you process my client’s registration, provide us with our 'Warden Class' gear allocation—plus a fifteen percent 'Distress Bonus' for the caiman attack—and show us to our quarters. Or do I need to start talking about ‘Sexual Harassment in a Quasi-Magical Workplace’? Because Prince Zhan’s guards outside were making some very unprofessional comments about my tactical leggings."

  Valerius stared at her. He looked at the ink on his fingers. For the first time in his long, blood-stained career of administrative destruction, he felt... small.

  "I... I will... consult the auxiliary records," Valerius whispered, his hands trembling as he began to frantically stamp Sarah’s digital forms. "The penalties are... waived. Due to... environmental interference. Move along. Move along before the Prince notices."

  "Thank you, Valerius," Sarah said, snapping her tablet shut. She adjusted her glasses, her face returning to its cool, unreadable mask. "And get some tea. You look stressed. The humidity in here is at eighty-four percent. If you don't install proper ventilation, I’m going to have to file a report about mold-spores."

  She turned and walked back to the team. "Wei. Let’s go. We have the 'Warden's Suite.' Apparently, they have a meditation pool that vibrates at 432 Hertz."

  "Can I bring the cat videos?" Wei asked, hopping off the pillar.

  "You can do whatever you want, as long as you don't get us disqualified before I finish the audit of their supply chain," Sarah said.

  Han Wei walked out of the Registry Office, his laughter echoing through the halls of the Iron Blood Pavilion. He didn't look back at the broken Registrar or the glowering warriors. He was watching a video of a cat standing on its head, and he was smiling the entire time.

  The outer disciple of the Azure Cloud Sect had spent a lifetime fearing the wrath of administrators. But today, he realized that the loudest scream in the universe was nothing compared to the quiet, efficient click of a well-organized tablet.

  *