The sun hung low over the battlefield, a blood-red orb obscured by the smoke of a thousand burning talismans. The noise of the main conflict—the clash of armies at the Spirit Mines—was a distant, rolling thunder, a constant backdrop to the silent, deadly work happening in the shadows of the hinterlands.
Wang Jian moved through the canopy of a twisted, ancient forest deep behind the Mystic Peak Sect's lines. He wasn't walking; he was drifting, a phantom carried on the wind. His Void-Merging Breath was fully active, wrapping him in a shroud of nothingness. To the spiritual senses of the wandering beasts and patrolling disciples, he simply did not exist.
But he wasn't alone.
