Wēn Ruòhán was dead and the war that once ravaged the cultivation world had finally come to an end, but its aftermath gave rise to a new era of challenges.
Jīn Guāngshàn, a driven and ambitious Sect Leader driven by his insatiable thirst for power a...
Because of their failures, the price was paid by the innocent caught in the crossfire of their actions.
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The echoes of Wèi Wúxiàn's anguished sobs had barely faded when the air in the hall became thick with a suffocating silence. The cultivators, mere moments ago fueled by righteous fury and a thirst for vengeance, now found themselves frozen, their eyes transfixed on the devastating scene unfolding before them.
Wèi Wúxiàn cradled the broken form of Wēn Níng, his body rocking back and forth in a desperate, futile attempt to soothe the unimaginable pain. Tears streamed down his face, each drop a manifestation of the torment that now coursed through the veins of the surrounding cultivators.
One by one, they succumbed to the overwhelming tide of emotion. Some fell apart, overcome by the guilt that gnawed at their very souls, their own tears mingling with Wèi Wúxiàn's. Others simply sat, heads bowed, unable to tear their gaze from the tragic tableau, haunted by the consequences of their blind hatred and unbridled violence.
A few, however, remained unmoved, their expressions hardened by years of rigid discipline and uncompromising beliefs. For them, the anguish on display held no sway, their convictions unwavering in the face of such emotional turmoil.
In that moment, the lines between friend and foe blurred, as the cultivators were confronted with the harsh reality that their actions had not only destroyed the lives of those they deemed enemies, but had also exacted a terrible toll upon their own souls. The weight of their choices bore down upon them, a stark reminder that even in the pursuit of justice, the cost of violence can be a burden too heavy to bear.
The mirror's surface shimmered and wavered, the once-reflective glass losing its clarity and morphing into an opaque, clouded void. A hush fell over the chamber as all eyes fixated upon the ominous display, breaths held in anticipation of what was to come.
Moments later, the void began to shift and distort, the clouded surface rippling like water disturbed by a pebble's impact. Slowly, the distortions resolved into flickering images, fragmented snippets of memory that danced across the mirror's surface.
The magnificent black panther, Hēixīng, fixed its piercing silver gaze upon the group of Wēn survivors kneeling before it. Its powerful, ancient eyes slowly swept over each of them, evaluating their postures and life energies with an inscrutable, otherworldly weight.
When Hēixīng's stare fell upon Wēn Qíng, she felt a shiver run down her spine. The panther's eyes harbored strange, unreadable emotions as they bore into her, a swirling tempest of sentiments that she could not decipher. Was it contempt? Anger? Dislike? But also, perhaps, a glimmer of understanding, a desire to comprehend the depths of her spirit?
