Morning sunlight poured over the Sanatan Flame Sect, bathing the terraced rooftops in brilliant gold. The light slid past crimson banners fluttering in the mountain breeze, cascading across the wide courtyards where disciples moved in practiced harmony. There was a rhythmic hum of sword qi in the air, punctuated by tongues of flame rising and dissipating with each measured breath. The sect was alive—neither hurried nor tense, but settled into an era of confident, disciplined peace.
On the highest terrace overlooking the grand grounds, Shaurya stood with his hands resting lightly behind his back.
