The southern border's main pass was a massive gap split between basalt cliffs, spanned by a stone wall three miles long. Stone defense towers rose from the ramparts toward the grey, soot-covered sky beneath a runic dome that shimmered with yellow light, its surface vibrating from the turbulent flows of spiritual Qi. The wind carried no moisture, only the dry scent of dust and old iron.
At the center of the camp, on a raised pavilion overlooking the battlements, Mu Bairong stood with his hands tucked into his wide grey sleeves. As an Elder in the Nascent Soul realm, his presence was a quiet, heavy pressure that settled over the compound, keeping the nervous juniors steady. Around him, a massive sand table projected real-time fluctuations of the border, its runic symbols shifting with glowing red markers.
