The afternoon sun of the Saint Burial Realm hung heavy and stagnant over Fragrant Flower City, like a dull orb of bruised gold filtering through the world's thick, impure atmosphere.
In the inner courtyard of the Ling Clan, the air was unnaturally still as Shen Haoran sat within a jade-carved pavilion, his posture one of effortless, aristocratic grace.
He sipped a fresh cup of spirit tea, the steam curling around his face like a silver mist.
Behind him stood Qing'er.
She had fully recovered from the soul-scorching dark gold lightning sent by the heavenly dao, and her aura now as calm and lethal as a deep, moonless lake.
Her black bodysuit hummed with a subtle, dark resonance, her red eyes scanning the perimeter with a vigilance that made the very air feel sharp.
They were in no hurry to make a move.
Despite the Golden Cloud elder's desperate escape with the charred remains of Jiang Chen, Haoran hadn't ordered an immediate pursuit.
