"This city..." Lan Tian muttered, voice grim and shaking. "...It's already dead."
Before them, the gates stood yawning open.
And from the mist, they came.
At first it was one.
Then a handful, then a hundred, then thousands. The ghouls spilled forth like a river of forgotten history.
But these weren't mindless beasts. No. They were worn echoes of a once-glorious civilization.
Each ghoul wore robes, Not the sleek, battle-hardened gear of modern cultivators.
But ancient ceremonial garb: flowing white and gold silks, embroidered with symbols of Light.
Long-forgotten dynasties had crafted those robes.
Robes now torn, rotting, soaked in old blood and corruption.
Armor pieces fit loosely from their skeletal frames—silver filigree dulled into black grime.
Rust ate at what were once divine artifacts.
Their faces were worse.
Sunken.
Eyes missing, or replaced with glowing hollows leaking faint, cursed light.
Mouths slack, some sewn shut with spiritual threads long broken.
