Monastery Grounds – Nightfall
The old stone path was cracking, showing its age, with wild grass spilling over the edges.
The crescent moon cast a soft glow over the slanted roofs of the monastery, which now stood wayside—forgotten in a world filled with cultivators who could fly. Such mortal beliefs were often crushed, having no foundation to stand on.
Now, only the cold wind could be heard, whispering through the tattered prayer flags. The lanterns hung on, barely maintaining their dim flickers.
Two robed figures ambled along the corridor that wrapped around the inner sanctum.
The first, taller and slightly hunched with age, leaned on a wooden staff topped with bronze—a clear symbol of his rank as Head Priest.
The second, younger but clad in the same well-worn robes, walked a step behind him.
Silence lay thick, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets.
