The mountain plateau, scarred from the battle, still smelled of scorched stone and blood when dawn crept over the ridges. Ash clung to the air like a lingering memory, refusing to disperse.
The cries of the wounded had quieted into groans, and the Feilun Sect's banners fluttered weakly in the chill morning breeze. Yet beneath that calm, tension brewed like an unspoken oath—this victory was only the first spark of a greater fire.
Tian Shen stood alone at the cliff's edge. His silver spear rested at his side, faint embers coiling from its tip as if reluctant to sleep. His eyes swept across the horizon, watching where the eastern sky darkened unnaturally, storm clouds coalescing though the air was dry.
The foreigners had fled, yes, but not broken. He could still feel their hatred, clinging to the wind like the echo of a blade unsheathed.
Behind him, footsteps approached. Elder Su's steady gait, measured and unhurried, stopped a few paces away.
