Upon entering the first event, the Sect of Myriad Races found themselves amidst ancient ruins. It appeared to be an old, dilapidated castle or stronghold, its towering walls of weathered obsidian stone cracked and overgrown with faintly glowing vines that pulsed like veins of forgotten mana.
The air was thick with the scent of aged iron, damp earth, and something metallic—blood, perhaps, from battles fought in eras long past. Massive broken gates hung off rusted hinges, revealing courtyards strewn with shattered statues of long-dead warriors, their stone faces frozen in eternal roars.
All ten thousand disciples gathered in the central bailey, taking in the scene with a mix of awe and greed.
