On the wasteland, the sandstorm raged on. Gale-fed grit howled like rabid beasts, careening across the open emptiness. The roar sounded ancient, a primeval monster that commanded awe even before it was seen.
Jared forged the lead, Flaxseed a step behind. Every stride buried their boots, and each new lift felt heavier than the last. Needles of sand peppered their skin, drawing pinpricks of pain, yet they never slowed.
Days bled together, and still not a whisper of the Sixth Hall surfaced. Out here they were no bigger than twin grains of sand, tossed whichever way fate fancied.
This wasteland on level seven felt forsaken, the very air starved of celestial energy, the ground a testament to cruelty. Little wonder rival factions had nearly killed each other for a single trickle of a celestial spring.
Jared could not guess how wide the desert sprawled, or when it would end. He wanted to fly out, but it would drain the spiritual energy could not spare.
With supplies thin, saved every drop of strength could whenever death was not nipping at his heels.
“Jared, we’ve been walking for days!” Flaxseed shouted over the wind. “I haven’t even seen another traveler, never mind the Sixth Hall.”
He dragged a sleeve across his sand-caked face, frustration etched in every line. The desert had split his already weathered skin, leaving it dry and raw beneath the grit.
Jared halted, scanning the endless waste with a furrowed brow, weighing paths that existed only in his mind. He stood in flowing white, a lone island of calm amid a wasteland whipped raw by relentless wind.
He had assumed that locating Celestial Palace’s hidden Sixth Hall would be simple, any power that formidable should cast a long shadow. Yet the days crawled by without a trace. It felt as if the Sixth Hall existed only in bedtime legends, a mirage spoken of by ghosts.
“Seems the Sixth Hall really has buried itself well, or everyone out here is too afraid to whisper its name,” Jared said. His voice rode low under the gale, steel-hard and unquestionable.
During their wandering, they passed a handful of cultivators. Each traveler hurried past, eyes darting over their shoulders as though something monstrous hunted the dunes behind them.
Whenever Flaxseed dared mention the Sixth Hall, strangers either shook their heads or bolted, terror snapping their remaining words in two.
Once, an elderly man, his smile as gentle as morning tea, paused to chat. The instant Jared asked about the hall, blood drained from the man’s face. His lips quivered, hands flapping in frantic denial before whirled away, sprinting as if fangs scraped his heels.
“This isn’t working. We need a different approach…” Flaxseed muttered, frustration cracking the swagger usually wore like perfume.
He knew Jared required mountains of celestial gems to breach his next realm, yet they could not even find the hall that guarded those riches.
If we keep stumbling blind, Jared’s breakthrough will stall, and the souls of my clan will drift further from rescue!
Every lost hour tugged at Flaxseed’s chest; delay meant threads unraveling, dangers multiplying in the dark. Suddenly, a woman’s scream cleaved the wasteland-sharp, terrified, urgent.
“Help me! Let go! Who are you?!” The voice rang again, thin but unmistakable. Even beneath the roaring wind, the plea carried straight to Jared and Flaxseed, clear as a ball at midnight.
