Hundreds of disciples. Core Formation. Foundation Establishment. The best of their sects. The future of their lineages. Dying. Being devoured. And the Immortal had said let them die.
Jin Wuchen's enormous frame, his formal robes, his dark eyes, stood. His jaw was tight. His hands, behind his back, were clenched. The knuckles, white, were audible.
The sect leaders stood. Looking at the citadel. Looking at the body. Looking at the inevitability of destruction. The destruction of their disciples. Of their sects' futures. Of everything they had built.
Then the sound came.
Soft. Muffled. The sound of footsteps. Of boots on stone. Of a walk that carried weight, purpose, and the absolute certainty of a being who owned the ground.
They turned.
Tianlong descended from the ship. His formal attire, the dark silk and crimson rope, was immaculate. His dark hair, loose, fell across his shoulders. His gold-crimson eyes, sweeping the plateau, were calm. His hands were behind his back.
