Compared to the chaos below, the sky above the Imperial City—seat of the Song Family—was calm.
Clouds drifted lazily across a sea of blue, and at scattered points, whorls of spiritual qi condensed into brief heavenly phenomena—fleeting mirages shaped like phoenixes, lotuses, and sword shadows.
Rong Lua hovered above it all, high in the thin air, the wind fluttering his obsidian cloak. From a distance, he appeared the image of detachment—expression serene, eyes cold as polished jade.
If Song Po could have seen his face now, she would have fainted in disbelief.
The arrogance and charm he had displayed earlier were gone, peeled away like a mask. The man floating in the heavens now was not the coquettish subordinate who had bowed to her authority—but the cautious strategist of the Ten Thousand Sword Sect, a predator wearing human calm.
Rong Lua's gaze drifted quietly toward the distant Phoenix and Dragon Dojo, his eyes still and unreadable.
