It was the largest gathering in university history.
Students, faculty, sect elders, and sponsors from across the Empire filled the marble amphitheater, its arched ceiling enchanted to mirror the sky above — but that sky was dark.
A low-pressure storm had rolled in from nowhere. The air crackled with unnatural tension. Birds refused to fly overhead. Even the wind seemed to wait.
At the center of it all stood the stage.
And on the stage stood Li Chen.
Or what was left of him.
Thirty Minutes Earlier
The Dean had opened the ceremony with pomp and flourish, unaware of the hell humming just outside the edge of perception.
Diplomas were handed out. Speeches made.
Even Zhao Yuran was honored with the Phoenix Alchemist Distinction, a title once reserved for sect leaders.
Hei Long watched from the upper balcony, flanked by two guards and Leng Qingxue, whose hand never left the hilt of her sword. Her eyes never left the shadows.
Because they knew.
Something was coming.
