The Chinese Pantheon, once a realm of eternal harmony and golden light, was now a charnel house of cosmic proportions.
Saint Nuwa stood upon a fragment of the shattered South Heaven Gate, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
It was a slaughter. There was no other word for it.
She watched as a venerable Cultivator, a man who had spent ten thousand years tempering his soul to the hardness of diamond, was swarmed by a hundred of the infant-like "Silent Wailers."
Their tiny, needle-toothed mouths didn't just bite his flesh; they bit into his cultivation base, drinking his immortality until he withered into grey ash.
Gods who controlled the fundamental elements found their fires extinguished by a single touch of the black tide.
Immortals who had bypassed the cycle of reincarnation were finding that there was a finality worse than death: consumption.
"The Outer Ones are inevitable," Nuwa whispered.
