Deep in the Qingnang Sect's valley, on the grass before a cave where someone had secluded himself to cultivate.
The setting sun was like blood, its last faint rays spilling across the valley, which should have been tranquil but was now soaked in bloodshed.
The sect's halls and pavilions, with their dark-tiled roofs, white walls, and upturned eaves, still stood among the tall pines and cypresses. But now, some of their lush green branches were speckled with dark red, and the air was thick with the cloying stench of blood. Mixed with the evening breeze's chill, it was nauseating.
On the bluestone-paved training ground, beneath the winding corridors, before the windows of elegant halls... everywhere the eye could see, corpses lay strewn about.
Most wore the Qingnang Sect's standard blue robes, making it obvious they were its disciples. But their robes had been soaked dark and mottled with their own blood. Countless pairs of eyes stared blankly at the dimming sky, filled with the terror, indignation, and confusion they had felt before death.
Broken blades and torn banners were scattered across the ground. The once elegant estate of a martial sect had become a living hell.
At that moment, two figures stood facing each other in silence on the grass before the cultivation cave.
One was an old man with white hair and beard and a gaunt face. He wore an elder's robe embroidered with golden medicine-gourd patterns. At a glance, it was clear he was a member of the Qingnang Sect.
"..."
His face was livid, his lips trembling slightly. He clutched a poisoned dagger that glimmered with a cold, eerie blue light, while three magical artifacts hovered around him:
A small bronze shield with a cracked surface, a bell that spun continuously and gave off a hazy green