The Spirit Armor streaked across the sky.
It let out a piercing shriek that tore through the air.
When Han Feng returned to the outpost at the Cyan Miasma Swamp, he was met with an eerie, deathly silence.
Everyone had seen the streak of dark gold light returning from the direction of the Silent Ridge.
Like a falling star, it plunged precisely toward the Central Army Tent.
The tent flap was violently thrown open by a gust of wind.
Ye Jinghong, clad in his military uniform, strode out to meet him, his iron-soled boots thudding against the ground.
His usually cold, hard face was etched with a rare tension.
Behind him, Gu Jian and a group of Red Armor Guards stood with their hands on their weapons, their expressions grim, as if awaiting a battle report that would decide their very survival.
"Advisor Han, you..."
Ye Jinghong's gaze fell on Han Feng, and the countless questions he had prepared were instantly caught in his throat.
