The nights after the battle stretched longer than before. Even when the moon was high, and the ridges bathed in cold silver light, sleep eluded Tian Shen.
His Core beat with unnatural force, each pulse echoing like distant thunder across the marrow of his bones.
He had repelled the foreign leader, broken his gauntlet, and stood tall amid ruin—but peace had not returned. Instead, the plateau, once silent, now thrummed with the weight of expectation.
The Root Division trained harder than ever. Disciples pushed themselves to the brink, their limbs aching, their breaths ragged, yet their eyes burned with determination.
Their loyalty to Tian Shen had deepened—not out of fear, but out of faith.
They whispered his name as though invoking a shield, as though his presence alone could turn the tide of fate.
