The ancient Burial Mounds possess an extraordinary power, a thrilling voyage through time unfolds. These enigmatic Mounds, with a will of their own, embark on an extraordinary mission: to journey back to the past and seek out their cherished guardia...
And so, in the quiet aftermath of the failed confrontation, the land itself wept for Wèi Wúxiàn, the boy who had given them life.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The air inside the tent was thick with the weight of defeat. The early morning sun was hidden behind a blanket of clouds, casting a dull gray light that barely penetrated the thick fabric walls. It was a cold, damp light—fitting for the mood of the cultivators inside. The leaders of the great sects, men who once radiated strength and vitality, sat in silence, their faces drawn and hollow.
The night had passed slowly, each hour dragging on, filled with restless tossing and turning as their bodies struggled to process the damage done to their golden cores. Sleep had been scarce, and what little rest they had found had offered no comfort. When they had risen, the truth had greeted them harshly.
Jīn Guāngshàn had been the first to wake. He had felt it immediately—the weight in his limbs, the stiffness in his joints. His body, once brimming with the energy of a strong golden core, now felt weak, foreign. It was as if his very essence had been drained, leaving him an empty husk. He had stood before the mirror, trembling hands lifting to his face, and what he saw had stolen the breath from his lungs.
The reflection staring back at him was unrecognizable. His once youthful, smooth face was now lined with deep wrinkles, his skin sagging as if time itself had fast-forwarded by decades. His once lustrous black hair, always tied in a sleek, immaculate knot, had turned gray and dull, streaks of silver marking the passage of years that had not truly passed.
"No..." His voice was hoarse, trembling with disbelief. He touched his face again, hoping the wrinkles would disappear, hoping it was some cruel illusion, but the reflection didn't change. He was old. The strength of his core—his very vitality—had been ripped away in a single night.
Across the tent, similar sounds of shock echoed from the other sect leaders. Niè Míngjué, who had always been a towering figure of power and discipline, moved slowly as he sat up, his muscles stiff and unyielding. The deep-set lines around his eyes and mouth had sharpened, his once vibrant energy dulled by the damage to his core. Even his eyes, always sharp and focused, looked clouded with fatigue.
Lán Xīchén, too, rose from where he had been resting, his usually calm and composed face marred by lines of worry. His brow furrowed as he examined his hands, noticing the faint tremor that hadn't been there before. His reflection, like the others, bore the marks of rapid aging. The weight of the failure was etched into his very features, the toll of their weakened golden cores sapping not only their strength but also their youth.
Jiāng Chéng, ever stoic and cold, stood apart from the others. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck stood out like cords. He was silent, but his eyes betrayed the fury boiling just beneath the surface. He, too, had aged. The vibrant energy that had once defined him had faded, leaving behind a man who looked far older than his years. The bitterness in his heart was as sharp as the lines on his face.
