When Jared's legions darkened the skies above their valley, the sect defense formation ignited from peak to peak.
Countless disciples stood upon the walls, faces taut, spell-sigils swirling like constellations around their clenched fists.
At their head strode the white-haired sect master, a man whose cultivation teetered at the pinnacle of Heavenly Immortal Level Three. Behind him, the elder council fanned out like a living phalanx.
"Jared Chance!" The old master clasped his hands, voice steady yet edged with iron. "Your deeds have reached even our quiet halls. That statue embodies our lineage and the very luck of our gates. We cannot surrender it. Should you press the matter, every soul beneath this roof will fight until neither jade nor bone remains intact!"
A roar answered him, thousands of disciples In flawless unison.
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