Wanggu.
A land of desolation.
The bleak winds did not rise from the sea but were born from the relentless pressure of heaven and earth, growing stronger as they swept across the land.
They howled through the skies, their mournful wails like a funeral dirge for the dying Wanggu.
The once-majestic mountain ranges now lay like petrified ancient dragons, their backs no longer clad in verdant scales but covered instead in layers of dark-brown rocky shells.
Vegetation could no longer thrive.
Only the seeping flames from the earth's fissures scorched the mountains, leaving them charred like corpses.
This was the thirty-first year of the Parting Summer Calendar.
Twenty-seven years had passed since the Sword Holding Great Emperor slashed his sword toward the heavens.
These twenty-seven years had been arduous for Wanggu.
The ceaseless thunder from the sky was like a countdown, pressing heavily upon all races of Wanggu—a death knell ringing in their ears.
