Morning came gently over the coast.
For the first time in what felt like centuries, the world was quiet.
The air no longer carried screams or thunder; only the rhythmic breathing of the sea.
Mist drifted above the pale sand like silver silk, curling through the tents of the Sanatan Flame Sect's camp.
Soft waves rolled, glimmering faintly beneath the rising light. The scars of battle — the shattered stones, the blackened shore — now seemed almost peaceful beneath the touch of dawn.
A new calm had settled.
A calm earned by flame.
The sect had survived.
And now, it healed.
Morning scene.
Ten days.
That was all that remained before the Secret Realm closed — its ancient doors folding in upon themselves, returning everything to silence.
And within that time, the Sanatan Flame Sect had found their rhythm again.
The camp stirred to life under the soft sky.
