Chapter 6423

Within the ranks, familiar faces stood ready for battle, each in their assigned positions, every aura pushed to its peak.

Rowe rested a heavy black-iron war axe across his shoulder. The blade glinted with a cold, savage light. He tipped his head back and laughed, baring a clean row of white teeth. His rugged features carried a fearless boldness—no hesitation, no fear of death—waiting only for the command to charge.

A lanky cultivator casually flicked a plain folding fan in his hand. He looked relaxed, almost careless, but his eyes were sharp and chilling—like drawn steel. Every open and close of that fan concealed lethal techniques built for ambush and cutting off escape routes at close range.

A middle-aged bladeswoman moved her fingers in a blur. Two short blades spun through her hands in rapid arcs, their fragmented flashes of light thin and deadly. She had never once been beaten in close combat.

Silas, the white-haired elder, stroked his graying beard with one hand. His gaze was deep and still, like a black well. While others waited for the order to move, he was already reading the battlefield—mapping formations, anticipating shifts, calculating every possible turn before it happened.

Only Rowan stood apart at the rear of the formation, leaning on an old ironwood cane.