Morning sunlight poured softly over Mount Skyhowl, scattering golden rays across the courtyard.
The mountain air was crisp, wavy and fresh.
At the heart of the courtyard stood Fang Yuan, with his robes fluttering gently in the faint wind.
The altar beneath him shimmered with layered formation lines, circles within circles, glowing faintly with spirit light.
In his hand, he held the delicate silver necklace that contained Du Xin's fragmented soul, its faint blue glow pulsing like a weak heartbeat.
Around the courtyard, dozens of faces peeked from behind pillars and open windows, disciples, elders, and even a few children, their eyes wide with curiosity and awe.
Whispered voices carried through the air, filled with both reverence and worry.
Near the front stood Du Juan, her hands clenched tightly together, knuckles pale.
Beside her, Xiao Pei kept his voice low and steady, though his posture betrayed his own unease.
