The air cracked.
The two figures stood amidst the broken stalls — Mo Han, his cursed blade crimson and steady in hand, and the masked elder, his spear humming with sharp, unseen force.
Then, with a roar like a sudden cry, the elder moved. His spear spun through the air in a blur of black and silver. The ground split where the weapon struck, wind gushing upward like a dragon released from a seal.
"Wind Devourer Formation—!" the masked man's voice bellowed, a cold and measured shout that sent spiritual energy rippling outward.
The moment the words left his mouth, gales whipped into form — six coiling streams of pure air that spun around him, roaring, shredding fragments of stone and wood.
The pressure hit Mo Han like a wave. His robe flapped violently; sand stung his face. The cursed sword in his hand trembled faintly, as if growling back at the challenge.
But Mo Han did not retreat. His eyes narrowed. He stepped forward.
