The sky was no longer blue; it was a bruised, sickly purple, choked by thick ash and swirling dust. The atmosphere tasted of iron and sulfur, as if the world itself were bleeding. The earth beneath lay shattered in jagged veins, a graveyard of a once-mighty empire that had dared to defy the heavens.
In the center of this desolation stood Tian Long. He did not stand on the soil, but atop a mountain of corpses—a throne of cold flesh and broken armor. His silhouette remained indifferent to the carnage, his eyes reflecting the dying embers of a civilization.
A raspy, wet cough cracked through the silence. From beneath a pile of rubble, an old man—half-crushed and bloodied—crawled out. His eyes widened in pure horror as he recognized the figure above.
"Tian... is it truly you?" the old man wheezed, tears carving muddy paths through the ash on his face.
Tian did not turn. His voice was a winter wind—sharp, lifeless, and devoid of warmth. "I am surprised, old man. I thought my strike was thorough enough to wipe every miserable soul from this pathetic Sect. How are you still breathing?"
"Why, Tian?" the old man wailed, his voice breaking. "These were your brothers... your teachers! This was your home!"
Tian finally glanced back. His eyes were void of any humanity, replaced by a terrifying, infinite hollow. "Home? The day you allowed my only world to be snatched away was the day this home became a slaughterhouse. If your memory is failing, take your questions to hell. Let the flames remind you."
With a subtle flick of his wrist, a needle-thin streak of blue energy bisected the air. It pierced the old man's throat before he could finish his plea for mercy. His final word—"Forgive"—died in his throat.
Tian Long let out a heavy, ragged sigh. He wasn't exhausted from the slaughter, but from the crushing weight of his own heart. He sat down on the corpse of his former mentor, staring at the horizon where the world continued to burn in silence.