The battlefield had grown quiet.
Smoldering corpses of Taotie beasts littered the crimson-stained plains beyond the Scarlet Ridge Fortress. The monstrous tide that once seemed unending now lay in heaps of smoking ruin. Their blood bubbled beneath shattered stones. The once-proud walls, cracked and cratered, stood like scarred veterans—wounded but unbroken.
Travis stood at the gates, shirt torn and soaked in a mixture of sweat, blood, and divine residue. His long, black hair clung to his temples, eyes glowing faintly gold from his Nine-Hell Incubus Physique still humming with residual power. Mugo sat on a broken slab behind him, wheezing like a punctured wine jug. A few soldiers staggered around them, offering nods of deep respect—not just to Travis, but to a man who had fought like ten battalions.
