The Azure Sky Battalion numbered nearly two hundred when it set out—disciples, captains, and elders alike. Their azure banners fluttered proudly, their qi surging like an ocean tide. Songs of vengeance echoed as they descended into the forgotten lands, fueled by rage for their fallen brothers and sisters.
But as they crossed the boundary stones of the ancient ruins, the air shifted.
The sky dimmed unnaturally, clouds swirling in silent spirals above. The earth groaned beneath their boots, and the faint hum of ancient formations stirred in the distance.
Elder Jian Mu, leading the vanguard, raised a hand.
"Stay sharp. These stones are not lifeless—they remember blood."
The first death came silently.
A disciple stepped across a cracked sigil carved into the ground. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then—snap. Chains of light erupted from the earth, binding him like a fly in a spider's web. His screams were brief, ending as his body was pulled down into the stone itself, leaving nothing but silence.
Panic rippled, but the commanders barked orders, forming defensive formations.
"Forward! The sect's might fears no shadows!" shouted Captain Lei Guang, his halberd glowing with azure flame.
But the ruins feasted on arrogance.
Walls of the crumbled temples groaned and shifted, releasing grotesque stone guardians shaped like beasts of nightmare. Their eyes glowed with faded crimson, their stone claws sharper than steel. Disciples clashed, qi techniques flaring like fireworks, but each beast slain cost a dozen lives.
Blood slicked the stones.
Worse still, rivers of mist rolled from the deeper corridors, carrying whispers that gnawed at the mind. A group of young cultivators, ears bleeding, turned their blades upon one another, lost in hallucinations of betrayal. Their screams joined the ruin's chorus.
By the time the battalion reached the Altar of Black Stone, their numbers had halved. Nearly a hundred lay scattered—broken, devoured, or vanished without trace.
The survivors stood in grim silence, panting, clothes soaked in blood not entirely their own. Pride had withered. Only fear and grim duty kept them moving.
And then they saw him.
Upon the black altar sat a figure, wings folded like a shroud. His golden-red eyes glowed faintly in the dark, watching them with the patience of a predator. The scythe leaned at his side, dripping faint echoes of malice.
He rose slowly, the sound of his claws scraping stone echoing louder than any battle cry.
Aezrael smiled.
"So… the mountain sends its lambs to slaughter."
A single step forward, and the ruins themselves seemed to tremble.
The hunters had become the hunted.