The market district no longer screamed.
It breathed.
Dust still hung in the air, thin veils drifting lazily between shattered stalls and collapsed roofs. Stone fragments lay scattered like broken teeth across the streets. Wooden beams jutted out at awkward angles. Torn banners fluttered weakly, their inked verses half-buried under rubble.
City guards moved through the ruins—not aggressively, not hurried. They guided injured civilians, spoke calmly to shopkeepers, marked damaged structures with quiet efficiency. Healers knelt beside the wounded, spiritual light glowing softly in their palms.
No shouting. No accusations. No panic.
Just… aftermath.
At the center of it all, near what had once been a bustling underground exchange entrance, Wang Tian and Luo Chen sat side by side on broken stone steps.
Silent.
Very silent.
