Time blurred into something meaningless within the Sacred Grounds.
Lin Mu did not know how long he had been walking upon the razor's edge.
Hours? Days? Weeks?
The concept had become irrelevant.
There was no sky to change hues, no sun to rise or fall, no moon to wax or wane. Only the ever-present twilight gloom above, and the endless blade-thin path beneath his feet.
He pressed forward, one step at a time.
The winds had quieted, but the pressure had not eased. In fact, it had only grown more intense. Every meter traversed brought with it a subtle escalation of Sword Intent. No longer was it something external he could simply shield against—it began to seep inward, as if the edge of the path no longer sought to test his footing, but his very essence.
At first, it was only a flicker.
