The mountain winds carried whispers long before the first sight of foreign banners. Within the halls of the Feilun Sect, every disciple felt it. The pressure in the air was not that of natural storm nor celestial omen—it was human, deliberate, invasive.
Tian Shen sat cross-legged in the quiet heart of the Root Division hall. His spear rested at his side, lacquered black with faint golden veins pulsing through it, as though alive. His body was still, but the faint trembling of the lantern flames around him betrayed the surging force within his Core.
He could no longer deny it: the foreigners had arrived.
