The golden sun reached its zenith over the Heavenly Phoenix Range, bathing the world in an otherworldly glow. As if awakened from slumber, the earth itself buzzed with anticipation.
Hundreds of cultivators swarmed around the towering mountain's base, where a colossal camp had been erected—banners from ancient sects fluttered alongside those of rising clans and newly formed alliances.
The Golden Heir Tournament, a battle held once every fifty years, was more than a mere contest. It was a coronation ground. The summit had buried legends, crowned tyrants, and forged gods.
This time, the shadows of the past watched in silence as new blood gathered.
Among the crowd, a figure in black walked without sound. His cloak barely rustled, his mask hid a calm gaze that cut sharper than a soul-severing blade. Kent King moved as if time itself bent around him—always calm, always a step ahead.
