The scene in front of everyone was apocalyptic.
Lin Xinyao materialized beside Yun Qianxue, lunar energy flickering erratically around her. "The city won't hold. We need—"
"I know." Yun Qianxue's knuckles whitened around her sword hilt.
She turned to the gathered True Gods—Han Bingling's frost spreading in desperate patterns, Shen Liqiu's leaves withering as they tried to heal the air itself, Hei Yue's darkness fraying at the edges.
"Everyone," she commanded, her voice carrying the weight of glaciers, "converge on the Grand Array Platform."
The platform thrummed as hundreds of cultivators poured their essence into the central formation. The air smelled of burning blood and desperation.
Yang Ningchang and Lynn worked in tandem—one warping space to reinforce the barriers, the other stabilizing the crumbling laws of physics. Their noses bled from the strain.
