To walk the path of power is to bleed from the soul.
The world underwent another significant transformation once again.
Where mist and silence had swallowed them before, now the fog thinned into pale streaks, unraveling like the silk sleeves of a mourning bride.
The disciples emerged into a new realm unlike any befor... a courtyard that stretched into eternity, rimmed by broken archways and skyless void.
Crimson petals fell from trees that had no roots, their branches growing out of stone statues carved into screaming immortals, each one frozen mid-death.
The matter at hand is quite magical and difficult to comprehend.
This was no garden of peace, but a grave of dreams.
It was called the Garden of Weeping Blades, though no record of it could be found in any sect's archive. Those who stepped within often never returned, and those who did… never spoke again.
Before them lay hundreds, perhaps thousands, or even more swords.
