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                     Wu Yin stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the dungeon. His voice rang out, cold and commanding: “Those who can still move, drag the wounded away.” The ever-present smile that usually lingered on his lips vanished, replaced by the solemn authority of a sect master. From his sleeve, he drew a steel folding fan. Each step he took pressed down like a mountain, his aura forcing the berserk figure’s attention wholly onto him. Behind, the survivors seized the chance to drag the fallen from the blood-soaked ground. “Jade Silkworm,” Wu Yin said evenly, “you’re being disobedient again.” A faint fragrance drifted from the fan, curling through the air. Li Shuang’s eyes narrowed as she watched—the man’s crimson gaze locked onto Wu Yin, his violent aura seeming to ease. But just as Wu Yin drew closer, those dark red eyes flickered with a sudden, murderous light. Li Shuang’s instincts as a soldier screamed. “Look out!” ...