The sun rose slowly over the Western Continent.
It wasn't a bright sunrise.
The sky was muted, streaked with dull orange and gray, as if even the heavens understood what had happened here.
But light was light.
And light meant work.
All across the ruined cities and towns, rebuilding had already begun.
Not with grand speeches.
Not with banners or celebrations.
Just with tired hands, sore backs, and quiet determination.
At Dawn River City, teams of cultivators moved like clockwork across the broken farmland.
Older disciples repaired the irrigation trenches with earth magic while younger ones cleared debris and burned away the last traces of beast corruption with controlled spiritual flames.
Some of the surviving farmers limped out from their hidden shelters, wordlessly picking up tools and joining in.
There were no arguments.
No shouting.
Just a lot of silent nods and focused work.
It wasn't about pride anymore.
It was about survival.
