Daolin's bloodied twin swords rang as he faced the insurmountable enemy in front of him - thousands of cultivators, united against one man. He stood atop a mountain, a mountain not of stone or soil, but of corpses. The stench of blood filled the air, and rivers of crimson flowed beneath him. Even in the face of such horror, Daolin's unwavering spirit never faltered, for he was the indomitable force that shook the entire cultivation world.

The unforgiving sun beat down onto the battlefield, sweat mingling with grime and blood as it soaked through Daolin's clothes. His broad chest heaved, drawing in tatters of air between the thunderous collisions of his iron swords against opponents' weapons. An eternal sea of cultivators swirled before him, their hateful gazes locked upon him, the man who dared to defy them. His eyes, as sharp and cold as the winter frost, met their gaze without fear.