The applause didn't last long.
Applause never did.
By the time Epoch left the stage, the main hall was already resetting—staff rolling cables, casters lowering their voices, the next match's names sliding quietly onto the schedule. Victory screens faded. Attention moved on.
But not everywhere.
Inside Dawn's headquarters, the replay played without sound.
The office was dim, the only light coming from the massive screen on the far wall. The final team fight looped again—Daniel's Holy Crusader drifting sideways, not chasing, not retreating, just cutting off space.
Pause.
Rewind.
Play again.
A man in a tailored jacket stood with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable.
"So it's real," he said at last.
No one answered immediately.
Finally, a younger staffer cleared his throat. "The positioning doesn't follow standard Crusader theory. He's not front-lining. He's… anchoring."
The man nodded slightly. "He always did hate theory."
Another voice spoke, careful. "City League's already talking. Analysts are calling it 'inefficient but unavoidable.'"
The man smiled faintly. "That's how amateurs describe things they don't understand."
He turned from the screen.
"Nightwalker didn't come back to prove he can still play," he said. "He came back to prove we were wrong."
Silence followed.
Then: "Do we intervene?"
The man considered the question.
"Not yet," he said. "Let the City League carry him a little higher."
A pause.
"The fall is more convincing from there."
Meanwhile, Epoch returned to the studio to something unfamiliar.
Noise.
World Chat scrolled too fast to read.
"WHO IS THIS TEAM?""Epoch is real.""That Crusader is disgusting.""Is Nightwalker actually—"
Zhou muted three channels in a row, then laughed. "So this is what visibility feels like."
WildZone leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "I preferred the quiet. But I'll take this."
CrystalFeather didn't respond immediately. She was replaying the mid-lane fight on her screen, eyes focused.
"They're going to study us now," she said finally.
Ironwall nodded. "They already are."
Blackstone added calmly, "Good. Less guessing."
Daniel removed his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair.
"That match," he said, "is over."
Everyone looked at him.
"The next one won't look like that," Daniel continued. "They'll force us faster. Sloppier. They'll test discipline instead of mechanics."
WildZone grinned. "Then we don't blink."
Daniel met his gaze. "Exactly."
Later that night, when the studio lights were mostly off, Daniel stayed behind.
He queued nothing.
He watched nothing.
His phone buzzed once.
An unknown number.
You're louder than I expected.
Daniel stared at the message for a moment.
Then replied.
You're quieter than you used to be.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
No response came.
Daniel set the phone face down.
The City League update went live just before midnight.
Epoch's next match was highlighted.
Featured again.
No secondary venue.
No scheduling ambiguity.
They were officially inconvenient.
Zhou read it aloud, shaking his head. "Looks like hiding us is off the table."
Daniel looked at the roster list on the wall.
"Good," he said. "We're done warming up."
Outside, the city lights flickered.
Above them, the professional league moved on as always—sponsors, politics, narratives already forming.
But somewhere between the noise and the silence, something had shifted.
Epoch was no longer a question.
It was a variable.
And variables made systems nervous.