The southern gate loomed ahead, its lacquered beams scarred by lightning yet still defiant against the winds of war. Disciples lined the ramparts, their breaths misting in the crisp morning air. The wards flickered as elders infused them with qi, lines of light knitting into barriers across the mountain's approach.
Yet for all their readiness, fear lingered—unspoken, but sharp as any blade.
The riders of crimson had not moved since halting, their banners hissing in the wind. Rows of armored figures sat atop scaled warhorses, each beast shrouded in faint spiritual fire. Their silence was louder than any battle cry.
Tian Shen walked alone to the threshold of the gate. His spear dragged lightly against the stone, sparks tracing his path. The younger disciples shrank back as he passed, awe and dread mingling in their eyes.
When he reached the gate, Sect Master Liang's voice carried from above.
"Tian Shen."
