The cultivators did not let the lull of victory turn into sleep.
Hybrids were rounded up first. Those that still twitched were pinned to stone posts while elemental conjurers locked them within stones.
No one trusted the quiet. Not after what they had seen.
It would not even have been a mystery if the Aberrant had simply popped up behind a stranger's eyes.
Too many infections. Too many wrong miracles. So they treated every body like a trap until it proved otherwise.
The dead were gathered by mortals with cracked hands and blank faces.
Everyone took initiative. Some carried stretchers. Some carried nothing but a blanket and a will to lift.
Names rose from the devastated peaks.
A son. A sister. A husband who had run ahead and never come back.
The Silent Severance worked beside them without speaking. They collected hybrid corpses and fed them to fire.
Not pyres meant for ceremony. Incineration meant for prevention. Not even dust remained.
