The storm did not announce itself with thunder.
It came with utter silence.
A suffocating stillness settled over the Feilun peaks, so profound that even the spirit beasts quieted. The wind carried no scent, the air no sound.
The lantern flames that lined the terraces flickered once, twice—and then steadied, burning thin and tall, as though holding their breath.
Tian Shen stood at the northern edge, his spear planted beside him, eyes fixed on the horizon. The silver light within them pulsed faintly, catching the reflection of distant ridges.
Around him, the Root Division disciples waited in silence—hundreds of disciples, armor gleaming faintly in the moonlight, formation lines carved beneath their feet.
Every man and woman had trained for this night, this moment. Every beast had been bound, every rune woven, every breath synchronized to the same purpose.
The world trembled once.
"Hold the Formation!"
Tian Shen commanded softly.
