The violet sky loomed vast above the desolate land, its horizon stretching endlessly into silence. The battlefield, once roaring with life and fury, now lay still — broken and dry, as though the heavens themselves had been wounded.
Cracks marred the earth, jagged and deep, like scars carved by gods. Dust drifted in the air, mingling with the faint shimmer of fading spiritual energy. A colossal straight chasm, running for miles, split the wasteland — the lingering echo of Shaurya's final strike.
The ground was stained crimson. The bodies of the Jade Phoenix Sect lay scattered, their blood soaking into the barren soil — a grim testament to the storm that had just passed.
In the center of it all stood Shaurya, the Sect Master of the Sanatan Flame Sect. His golden aura, once blazing like the sun, now flickered weakly before fading into nothingness. His sword slid back into its scabbard with a metallic sigh.
