The morning after bloodshed was always quieter than it should have been.
Tang Li Yue had learned that a long time ago.
In the Central Plains, after a clan dispute, a sect skirmish, or a poisoned banquet that ended with more bodies than guests, the following morning would usually arrive too gently. Birds would still sing and servants would still sweep courtyards. Tea would still steam in porcelain cups as if no one had died screaming under the moon the night before.
That world was rude like that. It continued with no regard for the dead.
This world was no different. The sun rose over the farmhouse with pale gold light spilling across the fields, softening the reinforced fences, the watch posts, the burn pit, the trenches, and the gate that had recently decided who lived outside and who remained within. Dew clung to the leaves in the greenhouse and mist curled low over the outer fields. Somewhere beyond the road, zombies groaned faintly, sluggish and distant.
