The hall of illusions finally stilled, its warped surfaces fading back into plain stone.
What once seemed like a twisting forest and battlefield of phantoms was now nothing more than a vast square chamber, its high ceiling supported by pillars etched with alchemical motifs.
The echoes of battle died out, replaced by the ragged breathing of disciples trying to steady themselves.
Everyone looked worn down. Their clothes were torn, their limbs streaked with shallow cuts, and blood stained more than one robe. But as they gathered near the center, relief showed in their eyes, relief that they had all survived, though barely.
"Sit down. Tend to your wounds immediately," Xuan Qing ordered, her usually steady voice carrying a sharp edge. Though her hair was disheveled and a small cut ran across her cheek, her bearing remained steady. "We don't know what lies deeper in, but it will only be worse than this. We must recover our strength now."
The disciples nodded quickly.
