The dawn broke over the jagged peaks like a blade slicing through silk. Mist curled from the ravines below, reluctant to dissipate, as though mourning the devastation the battle had wrought. The plateau that had once been a bastion of pride and strength now lay pocked with scars—craters gouged deep into stone, pools of congealed blood, and blackened groves where spirit beasts had fallen defending their homes.
Yet, amid the ruin, the Feilun Sect endured.
Tian Shen stood atop a ridge overlooking the training grounds. His spear rested beside him, its lacquered black shaft streaked with silver veins that pulsed faintly, alive with the energy of his Utopian Core. His robes, though mended, still bore the memory of battle—stains of blood and ash blending with their original colors. He surveyed the disciplined rows of disciples preparing for another day of drills, their faces pale but resolute, each one silently seeking reassurance in his unwavering posture.
