The nights grew colder as the winds from the western ridges carried more than ash and smoke.
They carried whispers of war, of marching shadows that twisted the edges of known cultivation, of foreign banners thick with forbidden techniques.
The Feilun Sect, once a haven of discipline and tradition, transformed into a fortress forged in quiet determination.
At the heart of it all stood Tian Shen, spear in hand, his Utopian Core thrumming like a caged storm awaiting release.
The training grounds stretched across terraces carved from stone, each marked with fresh runes that pulsed faintly, responding to the efforts of disciples as they drilled from dawn to dusk.
Under Tian Shen's guidance, every exercise, every breath, every strike was sharpened to precision. He would pause mid-training, eyes scanning the alignment of formations, adjusting angles with a mere gesture, ensuring that no movement was wasted.
