It was chaos.
The air of the Seven Treasure City, once filled with the serene scent of incense and the rhythmic hum of cultivation, was now a thick, suffocating slurry of smoke and copper-scented blood.
Ning Xiao stood upon the command pavilion which was situated in the city wall, his hands trembling as he stared in grief at the sight before him.
The city he had spent his life governing, the sanctuary he loved with every fiber of his being, was being overrun by the Allied Kingdom soldiers like a plague of locusts.
He saw his clansmen—men and women he had known since they were children—getting cut down in the streets.
He saw young disciples, barely past their Body Refining stage, being trampled under the boots of seasoned killers.
Their ancestral buildings, repositories of thousands of years of knowledge, were getting burned and destroyed, the parchment of ancient scrolls fluttering in the air like charred butterflies.
