The borderlands east of the Feilun Sect were no longer fields of grass and stone. They had become a wound upon the land, scarred by the march of thousands. The horizon boiled with banners of foreign make—black cloth inked with blood-red sigils, fluttering above armies clad in twisted armor. The sound of war drums rolled across the plains like thunder, each beat a reminder of what was to come.
The Feilun Sect had answered. Upon the ridges and plateaus of their ancestral lands, cultivators stood arrayed in disciplined lines. Sword talismans hung at their belts, spirit beasts roared in their pens, and formation masters carved fresh runes into the earth.
Tian Shen stood at the forefront of the western ridge, silver spear in hand. The wind lashed his robes against his body, carrying the scent of smoke and iron from the approaching host. His silver flame flickered faintly along the spear's edge, a quiet promise of the storm within him.
