He was already above the clouds.
The estate was gone below him, the mountain ranges spreading in every direction as he climbed through the upper air, robe moving with the wind at this altitude, hands clasped behind his back in the specific way that cultivators who had nothing to prove carried themselves when they moved through the sky.
No spiritual energy signature.
The thin protective layer had gone up the moment he cleared the estate perimeter — a membrane of demonic qi drawn tightly around him, so refined it didn't disturb the ambient spiritual energy of the environment, the cultivator equivalent of holding your breath in a quiet room.
To anyone below, he was simply not there.
The earthquake's direction had been easy to locate — the seismic echo still moving through the mountain ranges like a conversation between stones, deep and continuing, and he followed it south and slightly east, dropping altitude as the specific mountain came into range.
He heard her before he saw her.
