The silence in the hall did not break; it thickened.
It became a physical weight, pressing against the eardrums of the six remaining players. Forty-eight, fifty faces, or maybe even more. The mourners had filled the gaps between the pillars, the shadows beneath the beams, and the narrow aisles leading to the coffin. They stood shoulder to shoulder, a sea of blurred features and charcoal-grey robes, their collective gaze fixed on the living with a predatory, patient stillness.
Lin Yue did not blink. He watched the front row.
Li Qiang was the first to break. He shifted his weight, his boots scraping softly against the floor.
Three seconds passed.
Then, as if a signal had been sent through an invisible wire, the first three rows of mourners shifted their weight. The sound was a synchronized, sliding rustle—a delayed echo of Li Qiang's movement.
The players froze.
