The sun rose over the Feilun mountains with a muted light, as if the heavens themselves watched with restraint, unwilling to shine too brightly upon a land preparing for war.
The plateau that had once echoed with laughter and drills now breathed tension, the scent of metal and ink mixing with the scent of pine and stone. Disciples moved with purpose, their eyes shadowed by sleepless nights, their limbs hardened from relentless training.
At the heart of this storm of discipline stood Tian Shen.
He was no longer merely the commander of the Root Division; he had become the pulse of the entire sect. Every decision, every formation, every adjustment in strategy passed through his hands before reaching the elders and disciples alike. His spear, black lacquered with veins of gold, seemed like an extension of his will. Wherever he stood, the energy of the sect realigned as though drawn toward a magnet of unyielding resolve.
