Fuing suddenly laughed softly. Not mocking, or arrogant.
Just tired.
"...Maybe."
The sect master slowly straightened his back despite the wounds covering his body.
Then his hand moved inside his robe.
Duskveil's pale-blue eye narrowed slightly.
From within his robes, Fuing pulled out a small talisman.
Old.
Ancient even.
The yellow paper looked fragile from age while strange symbols were carved across its surface using dried crimson ink.
The moment the talisman appeared, the surrounding air changed.
Even Duskveil stopped walking.
Fuing looked down at the talisman quietly.
His expression became complicated.
For a brief moment, his eyes shifted toward the distant corpse of his disciple lying amidst the battlefield.
A trace of sadness appeared in his gaze.
Then disappeared.
"This one..."
"...was meant for the sect's final moment."
Duskveil slowly raised his sword again.
Instinct.
