Below, disciples rushed to reinforce the barriers, their fear sharp as the storm in the air. Elders whispered hurriedly, debating whether to confront the intruders directly.
But Tian Shen's lips curved into a grim smile.
"Let them come closer," he murmured. "The storm doesn't chase. It waits—until it breaks."
And deep inside, the Core purred with anticipation.
...
The first light of dawn was swallowed by gray clouds rolling over the skies above the Feilun Sect. Winds howled across the mountain peaks, carrying with them a heavy, oppressive weight that was not natural. Disciples standing on the watchtowers felt their hair rise, as if unseen hands brushed against their souls.
At the heart of the mountain, Tian Shen stood upon the stone steps leading to the Sect's main plaza. His gaze was locked on the horizon, where the faint shimmer of distorted qi pressed against the sect's wards. The intrusion was not violent—not yet—but it was deliberate, brazen, and unmistakably foreign.
