The sky above the central region boiled.
Black clouds spiraled in jagged circles, dragged inward by a older force. The ground vibrated with living pulse — every heartbeat of the realm echoing through earth and stone. The air was suffocating thick, as if holding its breath.
The castle towered ahead.
Not built — but risen.
Massive spires, cracked walls, ancient runes humming faintly across its surface. The shadow aura gathered around it like a storm, swallowing hope.
And every step closer made the world feel colder.
Sanatan Flame Sect stood at the edge of the battlefield — formation tight, gazes sharp, flames within their eyes burning brighter than fear.
Shaurya walked at the front, Lin Shu beside him, Elders following, disciples forming a spear-like shape behind them. The wind whipped robes and hair back, carrying dust, broken branches, and the metallic scent of spiritual pressure.
But they weren't alone.
