The dawn that broke over the ravaged southern territories was a bloody, bruised purple. The night had been one of deep, soul-altering conquest for Wang Jian, and one of blissful, ignorant rest for Yue Lingshan and Chen Ying. When he returned to the main hall, looking for all the world like a diligent leader weary from a long night of solitary patrol, they greeted him with warmth and concern, their minds sharp and ready for the day ahead.
The relative peace of the morning, however, was a fragile, fleeting thing.
It began not with a sound, but with a feeling. The chaotic, random, and distant roar of the Beast Tide, which had become a constant, almost ignorable background noise, began to change. The chaotic symphony of a thousand different roars and screeches started to coalesce, to find a rhythm. It became a deep, resonant, and organized thunder, like the marching of a colossal, disciplined army.
Then, the earth itself began to tremble.
