Silence.
A silence so profound it rang louder than any applause ever could.
The great arena, the heart of the Xian Sword Sect, which had roared and thundered for over two months straight, now held its breath.
Lin Mu stood still.
The final remnants of golden sword leaves and blue ocean mist drifted gently around him, fading like dreams. His robes fluttered in the aftermath, not a speck of dust on them. Afternoon Pine and Ocean Raker rested in his hands like extensions of his own soul.
And Elder Yan Dao stood opposite him, bowed low, blood at the edge of his lips, body trembling but proud.
"An Emperor indeed," he murmured.
Then, with effort, he turned and walked away—not in defeat, but in acknowledgment.
A man who had touched the edge of a storm and lived to tell the tale.
With the Elder's departure, the disciples finally began to react. The stupor from the awe-inspiring fight finally ceasing.
The first gasps came from the outer ring.
Then the inner.
