Plum blossoms bloomed across the battlefield, not in quiet elegance but as if they'd had enough of being poetic metaphors and decided to become instruments of death. Each swing of Mo Zenith's blade unleashed a storm—petals turned shrapnel, wind turned blade, grace turned carnage. Vampires and cultists were sliced apart with surgical precision, and the blossoms danced through the chaos with all the lethality of an ancient martial art perfected over generations.
This was not Mount Hua, not even close, but the Mount Hua sect had brought its mountain with it in the form of Mo Zenith. The man stood at the forefront of the war in the East, his Radiant-rank power flaring out in surges that left afterimages in the air and silence in the wake of each strike. His silver hair whipped around him like a banner, and his robes—pristine white despite the carnage—seemed to repel not just dirt but the very concept of defeat.
