Máo Tiānzhēn sat in his mountain cave, hands pressed against bare stone, feeling the continental Qi flows through direct contact with earth that had absorbed energy for millennia. His Rank 6 cultivation granted him sensitivity to fluctuations that lesser cultivators couldn't perceive—subtle shifts in the fundamental energies that sustained all life on Tiānlù.
What he felt made his ancient heart race with terror.
Ten months had passed since his encounter with the thing wearing Supreme Elder Wēn Zhìyáng's flesh. Ten months of sensing the Qi disturbances intensifying, of watching patterns emerge that screamed of approaching catastrophe, of trying desperately to warn anyone who would listen.
Ten months of absolute failure.
The hermit cultivator had lived for one hundred thirty-seven years. He'd witnessed wars, natural disasters, gate breaches, and cultivation calamities. He understood tragedy on scales that would break younger minds.
But this was different.
