The air reeked of rust and scorching, and on the distant horizon, a sun hung more than half obscured by thick smoke.
This was a battlefield. Zhou Xuan turned his head and saw the banners. He could not tell which sects they belonged to; their tattered cloth had been reduced to a few strips that slapped ceaselessly against their poles in the biting north wind.
Some poles were wooden, while others were spears pressed into service. One was simply a broken sword hilt thrust into the frozen ground, with a blood-soaked hair ribbon tied to it.
Beneath the banners stood blurry, translucent remnants, dressed in all manner of cultivator robes, without even armor.
They had wrapped spirit beast hides around their forearms as makeshift armor. With their backs to a ridge, they stood in a horizontal line, packed tightly shoulder to shoulder.
Behind the ridge lay the Boundary-Breaking Mountains. Zhou Xuan recognized the terrain. The position of the pass, the course of the ridge, even the markings on the loose stones beneath his feet were identical to the place where he had just been standing—only ten thousand years earlier.
The veterans' formation had already fallen apart. Most of those in front were missing arms or legs. One figure had even lost his head, yet still knelt on one knee with a broken sword braced before him.
Those in the rear passed fragments of shattered dharma artifacts to the front, barely sticking them together with spiritual power to serve as weapons. There were no reinforcements here, no supplies, not even anyone in command.
Zhou Xuan swept his gaze behind the ranks, and his heart was suddenly seized in a wrenching grip. The pass through the Boundary-Breaking Mountains was open.
Beyond the mountains should have been their rear, with supply lines, people