The silence that fell upon the canyon was heavier and more suffocating than the previous roar of battle. It was a dead quiet, punctuated only by the soft, wet dripping of blood from the rocks and the pathetic, whimpering cries of the few surviving, now ownerless, spirit beasts.
The scene was a gruesome masterpiece of a slaughter. The bodies of over a hundred Hundred Beast Manor cultivators were strewn across the canyon floor like broken dolls, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their beast-hide armor stained a dark, glistening crimson. The air was a thick, gag-inducing cocktail of fresh blood, spilled guts, and the faint, lingering, and strangely sweet scent of Liu Ruyan's alchemical poisons.
Wang Jian stood in the center of the carnage, his breathing still slightly ragged, but his eyes were clear and cold. He looked at the scene not with horror, but with the deep, quiet satisfaction of a farmer surveying a bountiful, bloody harvest.
