The Iron-Root Hollow was less a valley and more a scar upon the face of the earth. Located precariously between the second defensive line of the Mystic Peak Sect and the encroaching vanguard of the Azure Sword Clan, it was a landscape of jagged, rust-colored rock formations that twisted out of the ground like the petrified roots of some ancient, dead titan.
The air here did not smell of wind or earth; it smelled of ozone, burnt flesh, and the metallic tang of spilled blood. Spiritual energy clashed in the atmosphere, creating chaotic vortices that could shred the robes of a mortal, but to the cultivators waging war here, it was simply the atmosphere of business.
And business was good.
