The first light of dawn cut across the Feilun mountains like a silver blade. Mist clung to the ridges, curling through the terraces, carrying the scent of scorched earth and the lingering remnants of the previous battle. The Feilun Sect, though battered, moved with purpose. The air was tense, but not with fear; it was a rhythm of urgency, a heartbeat of preparation.
Tian Shen walked along the western ridge, his silver-threaded eyes scanning every shadow, every ripple of qi in the wind. His spear was strapped across his back, still faintly glowing with residual silver flames. Even in the calm of the morning, he could feel the pulse of the sect beneath his feet, the qi weaving through the mountains like veins of life.
