The warm blood that splattered across the cracked wooden tiles began to sizzle faintly under the aura of death. The stench of vaporized flesh mixed with charred sorrow filled the air as silence returned once more, heavier than before.
The undead princess let out a breath of frost, slow and indifferent. Her eyes swept across the blood-soaked earth, unshaken.
"To defy the will of the dead… how foolish," she murmured softly, as if reciting a bedtime story to ghosts.
What remained of the quick reaction team was now scattered like broken toys—torn limbs, split torsos, twitching fingers clinging to swords they never got to swing.
The horned bear, the team's leader, lay crumpled near the center. His body had been shielded by nothing but pride and duty—neither of which could stand against the sheer pressure of a Stage Three cultivator's spiritual field. His lone horn, once a symbol of leadership and strength, rolled to the side like a discarded pebble.