Morning sunlight poured over the Sanatan Flame Sect.
Golden rays slid across tiled rooftops, brushed past fluttering banners, and spilled into open courtyards where disciples trained in steady rhythms. Sword qi hummed through the air. Flames rose and faded under controlled breaths. The sect was alive—not chaotic, not tense—but disciplined, confident.
Peaceful.
And strong.
At the highest terrace near the Main Hall, Shaurya stood with his hands behind his back.
His appearance had changed.
He wore a crimson outer robe, deep and calm like settled fire. Beneath it flowed a clean white inner robe, untouched by ornamentation. Black robe pants fell neatly along his legs, secured by a dark belt engraved with a coiling dragon emblem—simple, but commanding. Around his neck rested an OM-shaped silver necklace, faintly glowing, warm against his chest.
His hair had grown longer.
