The valley became a crucible of thunder and fire.
The foreign commander's glaive burned red like molten steel, each sweep carving trenches into the earth. Sparks and embers burst from his strikes, scorching stone, melting snow into steam. He was a titan of flesh and steel, his roar carrying like a war drum, each step shaking the battlefield.
But Tian Shen did not yield. His spear sang with lightning, arcs splitting the night sky. Every thrust was a thunderbolt, every sweep a storm tearing mountains apart. His qi surged wildly, no longer restrained—violent and glorious. The Utopian Core within him pulsed with hunger, demanding more blood, more battle, more proof of its strength.
