The moon hung low over the Feilun mountains, casting long shadows across the jagged scars left by battle. Where once the plateau had stood unbroken, now craters yawned like empty eyes, and streams of blood and runoff carved erratic channels through the stone.
Yet among the ruins, discipline remained. Fires burned steadily, not wildly. Disciples cleaned their weapons, healed their wounds, and recited protective mantras under the watchful eyes of their elders.
At the heart of it stood Tian Shen.
His spear gleamed beneath the pale light, its shaft still streaked with blackened qi remnants from the enemy's assault. His robes, torn and scorched, had been hastily repaired, but the fabric could not mask the strength and composure radiating from his form. He stood like a pillar carved from the mountains themselves, unmoved by exhaustion, unshaken by fear.
