The Sky-Tear Sea was calm. Too calm. The water was flat and silver like a mirror, not a single wave breaking the surface. That was the first sign. On the shore, hundreds of cultivators stood in tense groups, their eyes fixed on the empty horizon.
They weren't kids. These were seasoned fighters, explorers, and treasure-hunters from the major western clans: the Ironwood Brotherhood in their heavy leathers and cloaks, the Sunhawk Talons with feathered pauldrons and bows, the Silent Sisters in grey, hooded robes, and the Free-Lance Guild, a rough bunch with no single banner.
And among them, the Elders.
Old Man Garrin of the Ironwood stood on a weathered stump, his voice a low rasp that carried over the crowd. "Listen up! The Whispering Expanse opens today. It is not a playground. It is a graveyard with gifts."
He pointed a gnarled finger at the sea. "The realm is alive. It breathes. It dreams. You do not conquer it. You navigate it. There are rules."
