Three days passed quietly.
Not with urgency.
Not with chaos.
But with preparation.
The Sanatan Flame Sect stood awake before dawn.
Mist clung to the stone steps and training grounds, drifting lazily between pavilions and courtyards. Disciples gathered in clusters near the central plaza, voices hushed but excitement impossible to hide. Some whispered names. Some stared upward. Others simply waited.
Above the sect—
The Dark Pearl floated silently.
Its massive black hull hung in the air like a sleeping leviathan, runes faintly pulsing along its surface. Clouds parted gently around it, as if the sky itself knew better than to block its path.
This was not a war departure.
This was not an emergency.
Yet the atmosphere carried weight.
A different kind.
Politics always did.
Footsteps echoed across the stone path.
Unhurried.
Measured.
Shaurya walked forward with his hands in his pockets.
No aura flaring.
No pressure leaking.
No need.
