The plateau was silent in the wake of war.
Ash drifted from the sky, glowing faintly as it descended upon broken stone and blackened corpses. The air stank of blood and burned qi, the taste of iron and smoke thick enough to choke even the strongest cultivators. Where once the mountain ridges of Feilun had shone with proud formations, now their surfaces were scarred by craters and blood, rivers of ruin cutting across the land.
Yet still, the Sect stood.
The barrier's fractured runes glowed faintly, humming with weakened life. Disciples staggered back into their lines, some clutching wounds, others helping comrades who could not walk. Spirit beasts whimpered from their pens, their bodies scorched from their violent charges. Elders moved swiftly among them, stabilizing qi flows, healing where they could.
And at the center of it all was Tian Shen.
