Phillip stood before the grand white pedestal, the so-called Heavenly Sword of the White Flame resting in his palm.
All eyes were on him—the elders, the disciples, the women of the inner court—watching, expecting a boy humbled by glory, or a man dazzled by acceptance. But Phillip's fingers gripped the hilt coldly. He neither bowed in gratitude nor showed awe.
The sword sat in his hand like a dead fish.
A thin smile tugged at his lips.
Then—SHHHRAAANG!—he raised the sword high and brought it down in a clean, sharp arc.
CRAAAACK!
A deep, ugly scar tore through one of the main jade pillars of the ancestral hall, carved with generations of inscriptions. The pillar groaned, fractured, as talismans flickered and died. Cries erupted.
Gasps. Panic. A few disciples stumbled back. The spiritual pressure trembled.
Lily White's face paled.
