Dayan Dynasty!
Within the capital.
The once Immortal City has now turned into a silent grave.
The morning mist is like a veil, yet it carries a lingering scent of blood.
The once bustling main street, lined with towering buildings and halls, their red lacquered railings reflecting a somber glow in the morning light, now only left with scattered skeletons of the cultivators who once moved within.
The postures of the skeletons are bizarre.
Some are sitting cross-legged on the tea house cushions, skeletal hands still seeming to clutch shattered teacups, as if listening to a storyteller recounting some ancient legend, when life was abruptly taken from them.
Some lay at the city gates, skeletons retaining a running posture, with finger bones deeply embedded between flagstone cracks, as if trying to flee from something in their last moments.
The most chilling are the twisted corpses.
