The maze's shattered remains fell like dying snow behind them.
What replaced that chaos was silence—vast, heavy, ancient.
The Sanatan Flame Sect stepped into a new passage: wide, tall, built of obsidian stone that shimmered as if coated in night. The air here felt old enough to crush lungs; each breath carried dust of forgotten eras.
Torches ignited along the walls without a single spark—blue flames rising one after another, guiding them deeper.
"This castle…" Elder Wan muttered, voice low, "…changes with our steps."
Lin Shu nodded, remaining close to Shaurya. "It wants something."
Shaurya's gaze sharpened. "Yes. And it's watching every move."
They walked with caution—Shaurya in front, elders behind him, disciples arranged in formation, weapons drawn but pointed downward.
The corridor stretched endlessly, until—
A faint echo reached them.
Voices.
And not just anyone's—they carried arrogance and entitlement sharp enough to cut the air.
