The valley-hall created by the castle's rearrangement still buzzed with low murmurs. Dust drifted in the air like slow-moving fireflies. Cracked stone pillars jutted out at odd angles. Floating platforms glided lazily above the heads of hundreds of cultivators.
All sects. All clans. All rogue groups. Everyone.
Every soul inside the secret realm had been forced into this colossal arena.
The atmosphere was thick— suffocating— quiet in a way that made the heartbeat sound too loud.
Sanatan Flame Sect stood together on a wide stone ledge, their formation tight and disciplined. Lin Shu stood beside Shaurya, her hand wrapped firmly around her sword. Behind them, disciples recovered, checked weapons, secured positions.
Shaurya rolled his shoulders once, letting out a breath.
Lorgann, in his palm-sized molten form, sat on his shoulder with puffed-up annoyance.
At the center of it all—
A floating black platform.
A throne.
And the man seated upon it.
