The whistling gale tore through the sheared mountain canyon, carrying the biting stench of pulverized granite and scorched blood.
High above the shattered earth, King Tian Long stood motionless on the tip of the upright spear. The broad silver blade did not bend, nor did it shudder beneath his weight. His black-and-gold imperial robes fluttered lightly against the high-altitude draft, the five-clawed golden dragons embroidered across his chest shimmering like living scales under the pale sun.
A faint, knowing smile curved his lips as he looked down at the ruined battlefield.
With a whisper of displaced air, he stepped off the spearhead. He did not plummet like a falling stone; his descent was slow, weightless, and measured, his black leather boots meeting the cracked flags beside Shaurya without disturbing a single grain of dust.
