The silence that followed was the kind that didn't dare be broken by mere mortals.
Dozens of cultivators stood frozen in their battle stances, swords and talismans half-drawn, completely unsure whether to bow, flee, or question their entire understanding of divine beasts and bloodlines.
Even the spiritual beasts in the surroundings—those lurking unseen in the toxic mist and red haze—shuddered and went still.
Lan Yueru stared wide-eyed at the masked man.
"Who is he…?"
Tian Shen, for once, had no quip. No sarcastic murmur or dismissive shrug.
Just silence.
Because Little Mei—chaotic, sleepy, dramatic Little Mei—had not once tried to climb off his shoulder.
In fact, she had hidden behind Tian Shen's collar like a scared child.
That was new.
The masked man turned slowly, taking in the stunned expressions, the half-scorched scout, the pantsless elder still covering himself with a cracked fan, and finally Tian Shen himself.
His head tilted.
"You. What's your name?"
