Deep in the Western Wastes of Cloud Province lay Chiyan Valley.
A blood-red blaze shot skyward from the valley floor, staining the heavens for dozens of miles around a dark crimson.
They were the lingering embers of lava that the Earthfire Vein beneath Chiyan Valley spewed year-round. Over thousands of years, they had scorched the entire gorge into a spectacle of charred black cliffs.
The valley's disciples all wore crimson robes and revered fire. Among Cloud Province's Six Great Powers, Chiyan Valley was famed for its savage death warriors and peerless weapon forging. It was the strongest power in Cloud Province.
Yet at this moment, Daoist Fencang stood upon the raised platform in the council hall, staring at the secret report in his hand with a face as gloomy as red iron struck by frost.
"Xiao Jin is personally leading thirty thousand armored cavalry westward. The vanguard has already passed Cangwu Mountain Pass and is less than four days' travel from Chiyan Valley."
"Wei Ping of the Bitao Sect is leading three thousand aquatic troops north along the Clearwater River, sealing off our western retreat."
Daoist Fencang's fingers tightened slightly, crumpling the page of intelligence into a wrinkled ball in his grasp.
He raised his head and swept his gaze across the dozen or so Chiyan Valley hall masters and stewards standing in the hall. Every face was written with tension and panic.
The battle at Cross Ridge had cost them five thousand death warriors—the very cream of Chiyan Valley's strength. Even now, they had yet to recover.
The valley now had barely more than two thousand disciples capable of battle. Even with the outer mines' slaves and laborers included, gathering five thousand men was already the limit.
Five thousand against thirty thousand—a difference of sixfold. How were they supposed