The battlefield at the Spirit Mines had been a meat grinder for weeks. The earth was churned into a sludge of mud and gore, the air vibrating with the constant, dull thud of spell impacts and the sharp ring of steel on steel. Mystic Peak disciples in green and Azure Sword disciples in blue were locked in a stalemate of exhaustion, their hatred for one another dulled by the sheer fatigue of slaughter.
Deacon Zhou, a veteran of the Mystic Peak Sect, wiped sweat and blood from his eyes. He stood atop a small ridge, overseeing the western flank. "Hold the line!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse. "Their spiritual energy is fading! One more push!"
Across the ravine, an Azure Sword Deacon raised his cracked blade. "For the Sword Ancestor! Break them!"
It was the same rhythm they had danced to for a month. Attack, retreat, regroup, die.
But then, the rhythm broke.
It didn't start with a sound. It started with the light.
