The mountains trembled with the echoes of battle.
Where dawn had once broken with quiet splendor, now smoke rose in choking columns. The clash of steel and the screams of men bled into the wind, carried down the ridges and valleys like the toll of a funeral bell.
At the heart of it all, Tian Shen fought.
His spear was no longer merely a weapon. It had become a storm given form. Lightning cascaded down its shaft, arcs of violent energy dancing across his arms as though the heavens themselves had been bound to his flesh. Every thrust cracked the air, every sweep tore through armor and bone alike.
He moved as if the battlefield belonged to him.
And yet, opposite him, the wolf-banner general pressed forward with the fury of a beast unchained. His armor was painted white, yet streaked red with the blood of friend and foe alike. His curved spear flashed with murderous qi, every strike carrying the bite of a predator that had killed its way through countless wars.
