The stench of blood mingled with the acrid odor peculiar to Demonic Beasts, lingering in the canyon.
The battle was over.
Aside from Shen Fan's unit, not a single person wore the joy of victory.
Only a heavy silence remained.
The soldiers trudged through the wreckage of the battlefield, their bodies weary as they gathered the corpses of their comrades.
Metal armor scraped across the stones with a grating sound.
Each scrape tugged at the nerves of the living.
Flame Venerable stood motionless.
His crimson armor was stained with black-purple demonic blood, as well as the scarlet blood of his comrades.
His face, usually etched with arrogance, was now so pale that not a trace of color remained.
He gripped his riding crop tightly, the veins bulging on the back of his hand.
The wind swept through the canyon, stirring the hair above his brow. His exposed eyes remained fixed on a piece of rubble on the ground.
He didn't dare look up.
Much less toward that man.
The soldiers around them no longer looked at Shen Fan with mocking eyes.
In their place was something more complicated.
Awe, gratitude, and a trace of shame at their own earlier foolishness.
No one blamed Shen Fan for hiding his cultivation.
In a world that judged only by results, strength was everything.
With irrefutable proof, he had shown that he was right.
And with that same proof, he had trampled Flame Venerable's pride beneath his feet.
Shen Fan paid no attention to the gazes around him.
He was crouching to examine a Demon God's corpse.
With practiced hands, he extracted a dim demonic core from the Demon God's body and stowed it away.
His movements were calm and natural.
It was as if he weren't clearing a battlefield, but picking ripe fruit