The sun was setting beyond the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of crimson, gold, and deep violet. A soft breeze carried the fragrance of wildflowers that bloomed around the Sanatan Flame Sect's mountain peaks. The courtyard shimmered under the twilight glow, quiet yet brimming with an undercurrent of energy.
Shaurya stood tall in the center of the sect courtyard, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. His posture was relaxed, almost indifferent, yet there was a subtle weight in the air around him—as though he had planned something extraordinary. Not far from where he stood, the sect's elders gathered together, their gazes fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
The disciples, exhausted from the grueling mission earlier that day, had long retreated into their dorms to rest. Laughter and weary murmurs could be faintly heard from inside their rooms, a reminder of their human frailty after enduring Shaurya's relentless regimen.
