Peace has bloomed once again in the peak of Mount Hua as the usual routines of the disciples have been rolling again.
The sharp cries of training echoed across the mountain, the clash of wooden swords and the rhythmic thud of feet against the earth reverberating through the air.
The breeze carried the scent of plum blossoms, their delicate petals drifting down in a cascade of white and pink, painting the sect in a fleeting beauty that contrasted sharply with the disciplined chaos of the training grounds.
Inside the White Blossom Hall, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Ardiel lay motionless on the bed, his face pale and still as if carved from stone. For two weeks, he had been like this—a silent enigma, untouched by the world around him.
