At the heart of the lightning-shattered sanctum rose a jagged throne of obsidian, its high, pointed backrest shaped like a crown of frozen flames. It stood upon a tiered stone dais, elevated above the mist-veiled floor, flanked by ceremonial braziers where red embers burned without heat. Massive dragon pillars surrounded the throne, their carved forms twisted and ancient, radiating an oppressive, dark authority that bent the very air.
Beneath the obsidian dais stood Sa Jiao, his black silk robes pooling like shadows at his feet. His gaze was lowered toward the two figures kneeling before him—both unconscious, their hands bound behind their backs. One was Yan Ling. The other, Han Yu.
Sa Jiao's eyes flicked once to the empty throne. He then dragged Han Yu up by the restraints, gesturing indifferently at Yan Ling's kneeling figure as he spoke.
"I brought him here," he said coldly. "Do whatever you want with him. I'm leaving."
He turned to go.
