The decision of the Elders, a grudging, fractured compromise born from a crucible of anger and political maneuvering, sent ripples of change throughout the entire Mystic Peak Sect. The usual serene, almost ethereal atmosphere of the mountain, a place of quiet contemplation and diligent cultivation, evaporated overnight. It was replaced by something harder, colder, and far more dangerous.
The air itself felt different. It was no longer scented with the delicate fragrance of high-altitude spirit herbs and the clean, crisp purity of the clouds. Now, it was thick with the metallic tang of freshly quenched steel, the acrid smoke from the ever-burning forges of the Artifact Pavilion, and the palpable, humming tension of thousands of cultivators preparing for battle.
