The battered expedition convoy approached the outer perimeter of the Sixth as the late afternoon sun dipped low.
Hajin kept the newly won Rings dormant because the physician still counted the injuries beneath his sleeves.
Thirty meters ahead, the outer gates swung open without the blare of victory trumpets or ceremonial parade fanfare.
The guards on the perimeter ramparts lowered their bows, raising their hands in silent salute as the wagons rolled forward.
Hajin rode at the vanguard of the quiet column, feeling the comfortable stillness of his dormant six rings.
His divine fragment rested steadily at forty percent, humming with clean warmth through his restored chest conduits.
The familiar pine scent of the valley filled his lungs, bringing a deep sense of relief after the capital's smog.
Juna walked with calm grace beside the lead wagon, her silver hair catching the late mountain sunlight.
