The air in the grand hall was thick with the copper stench of slaughter and the primal, jagged screams of the dying. A blacksmith, his arms splattered with the blood of elders, raised a heavy iron cleaver over a sobbing Peng woman, his face a mask of blind, righteous hate.
"Stop."
The word wasn't a shout, but it cut through the cacophony like a silver needle through silk. It was a voice drenched in such profound, weary sorrow that the very air seemed to grow cold and still.
The mob froze. Blades held mid-air, they turned toward the arched entrance. There, framed by the flickering orange glow of the burning estate, stood Shen Yu.
He was a vision of agonizing martyrdom. His pristine white robes were shredded, clinging to his body in heavy, crimson patches where blood, blood he had drawn from his own skin with surgical, chilling precision, soaked the silk. He leaned heavily on Xu Yi, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches that made his chest heave with visible effort.
