Ash fell like tired snow.
Slow.
Relentless.
It dusted broken helms and split pauldrons, clung to cracked blades and shaking fingers.
It traced thin gray lines down faces streaked with sweat and blood, settled in lashes, melted into wounds that would not close.
The disciples of the Sanatan Flame Sect stood shoulder to shoulder.
Boots dug into fractured stone.
Spines bent but unbroken.
Breaths came rough and shallow, ribs creaking with every inhale, but no one stepped back.
Someone's sword tip trembled so hard it rang against the rock. Another tightened his grip until blood leaked between knuckles and dripped silently to the ground.
Eyes burned anyway.
Across the shattered terrace—
Qin Morian lifted his hand.
No flourish.
No chant.
Just the quiet certainty of a blade already descending.
Violet light seeped from his palm.
At first it was only a glow—thin threads curling lazily through his fingers like smoke.
