There were still elders and children in the village.
And the ones who had just returned from the battlefield, covered in wounds, who hadn't even had a chance to catch their breath.
She couldn't run.
But if she died here, who would be left to defend them?
The thought flashed through her mind for only an instant before she made her decision.
Mira transformed into a streak of pale golden light and flew west.
That was the direction of Ephialtes—the spatial rift she had personally sealed just that day.
But in the instant she turned, the Golden Threads in the air began to interweave, entwine, and spread out. Like a colossal blanket being woven by a goddess, it unfurled directly over the village, layering and thickening, one sheet after another.
It grew denser and thicker, shrouding the entire village beneath it.
The crimson Sword Qi gave chase.
As Mira flew, her ten fingers plucked nimbly through the air.
