The once-proud cities of Reverse Fate Country was reduced to smoldering ruins.
Buildings stood half-collapsed, streets were painted red with the blood of innocent lives, and the cries of the wounded echoed through the night.
Women clutched their children, shielding them with their bodies. The elderly, unable to flee, knelt and prayed to the heavens, even though the heavens had long abandoned them.
A young boy, no older than seven, stood amidst the bodies of his family, his small hands trembling as he reached for his mother's cold face.
Tears streamed down his cheeks as he whispered, "Mom… wake up… please… wake up…"
Yet no warmth remained in her once-loving embrace.
In another corner of the city, a cultivator stood over a group of civilians. His blade dripped with fresh blood as he raised it again.
"P-Please… spare my son…!" a father begged, shielding his child.
The cultivator sneered, "The heavens have no use for weaklings."
With a swift motion, he brought his sword down.
