The dawn over the Feilun mountains broke slow and pale, as if reluctant to face another day steeped in ashes and uncertainty. A fine mist clung to the broken ridges, swirling softly over blackened stone, whispering secrets only the mountain winds dared repeat.
Tian Shen stood atop the northern cliff, spear planted into the earth, gazing toward the horizon where shadowy banners pulsed in distant valleys like a sickness spreading.
His eyes, silver-threaded and sharp, reflected neither fear nor haste. He had stared into the abyss and forced it to retreat once. But he knew the abyss had only shifted, its maw opening wider, hungrier, prepared to consume more than pride or territory—it would devour the very soul of their land.
