The air was thick with the remnants of battle, the acrid scent of blood and burnt flesh, the lingering hum of dissipating magic. The once-grand imperial hall lay in ruins, its marble tiles fractured, its golden pillars marred with deep gashes, its walls stained with the dark residue of void creatures now reduced to nothing but mist. The bodies of the fallen, both enemy and ally, lay strewn like discarded chess pieces, testaments to a battle waged at the very heart of the empire.
Feng Jiao Xue stood among the wreckage, her senbon needles still gleaming with fresh crimson, her stance relaxed yet poised like a blade waiting to be drawn. She barely felt the exhaustion in her limbs, the sting of minor wounds. Instead, her gaze remained sharp, scanning the aftermath, the battlefield instincts honed in blood and steel whispering to her. Something was missing.
