On the day when the crack in the sky tore open the dome, the scarlet folds of space were like the wounds of the gods, and the wild reflection of the ancient world crushed the outline of the steel forest.
From that moment on, neon was drowned in the tide of aura, fighter planes crashed into skyscrapers entangled with vines, and electric and thermal weapons became cold ashes in the scrap iron pile. The tall buildings piled up by modern civilization were broken to pieces by the roar of beasts and the hoofbeats of the ancient cavalry, so much that even the cracks in the bricks oozed blood.
This is an era when a person's life is as cheap as a piece of grass: a swarm of bone-eating rats gnaws through the ruins, and the battle ax of the Xuanjia Department is chopped into pieces to make a last cry for help; this is also an era when the aura is as bright as an open flame: thunder arcs entangle broken steel bars, flames lick ancient patterns, and the glimmer of the awakened ones makes cracks in the shadow of the ruins.
When the last wall collapsed, someone saw the boy who had smashed the takeout box, with inch-long lavender lightning arcs springing from his fingertips - he was once crowded in the elevator of the office building to calculate the delivery fee. Now he was standing next to the corpse of the alien beast, with the lightning arcs burning holes in his trousers, facing the ancient scouts who came over, his voice was as hoarse as if it had been rubbed against broken bricks:
"I have to rewrite the way of life in Moguli.
