The next morning rose crimson over the jagged peaks of the Feilun mountains, as though the heavens themselves had bled in anticipation of what was to come.
The plateau, once cracked and scorched by the battle's fury, now lay coated in fresh frost. Mist curled over broken ridges and spent battlefields like ghosts reluctant to leave.
Yet despite the quiet beauty, every breath carried tension, every motion a reminder of the gathering storm on the horizon.
The Feilun Sect had not slept. Through the night, disciples drilled, elders repaired wards, and spirit beasts were tended with meticulous care.
Even the wounded, bandaged and weak, found ways to aid in fortifying defenses, refusing to remain idle while the threat loomed.
At the heart of the plateau stood Tian Shen, spear planted deep into the earth, its silver flame burning low but steady.
His eyes scanned the horizon once again, analyzing the distant banners that rippled like dark waves across the land.
