The Iron Butcher Union and Silent Fang arrived at the mountain intersection almost simultaneously.
The stone path that cut through the slope was wide enough to accommodate both groups with ease, yet the moment they came into view of one another, the space felt as though it had been compressed by an unseen hand. Boots crushed loose gravel underfoot.
Robes brushed against cold stone. No one drew a weapon, and yet the air itself grew sharp, saturated with killing intent that pressed down from all sides like a suffocating mist.
The two factions halted several dozen steps apart, instinctively maintaining distance.
Iron Butcher cultivators gathered into a dense formation without needing to be told. Their presence was heavy and blunt, their auras rolling outward in solid waves that carried the oppressive weight of raw strength rather than refinement.
