[Source Power: 75.5%]... [Source Power: 82.1%]... [Source Power: 88.9%] 

The overwhelming energy released by the destruction of the cult's ritual shield caused a sudden and immense surge in Su Mu's Source Power. 

This may have been due to the shock of the event or her attribute panel absorbing the lightning's power; the amount of source power directly increased to 89%.

A profound silence followed the blast, the kind of silence that presses painfully into your ears after an immense explosion, broken only by the groan of stressed metal and the distant rumble of the receding thunder. 

And then, as if birthed from the heart of the dissipating storm, they came.

From the storm-wracked, clearing sky, figures began to descend. 

Not falling, but dropping with an impossible, breathtaking grace and control, as if stepping down an invisible staircase. 

Each one was silhouetted against the lingering, fading flashes of lightning, their bodies lean, agile, and radiating an almost unbearable intensity. 

As they neared the ground, powerful gusts of wind, like miniature, perfectly controlled tornadoes, erupted beneath their feet, not just cushioning their descent but guiding it, allowing them to land with barely a whisper of sound amidst the chaos and debris. 

It was an arrival so silent, so preternaturally smooth, it was more terrifying than any battle cry.

They were the Silent Gale Hunters.

Their actions were a calculated dance of deadly force and purposeful movement.

Each Hunter radiated an aura of chilling pressure, an almost palpable coldness that was a stark contrast to the cultists' depraved, feverish fanaticism. 

Their armor, the Silent Gale Armor, seemed to drink the dim, storm-filtered light, its nano-fiber weave rippling subtly, making them appear like phantoms woven from the very essence of the receding storm. 

Some carried dual Windblades, razor-thin and humming faintly with spiritual power, as if, their edges seeming to cut the air itself. 

Others were armed with sleek, advanced-looking bows or more esoteric-looking gear, every piece speaking of silent, lethal efficiency. 

Impassive, stylized black masks concealed their expressions, making them appear as avatars embodying the storm's judgment.

The sudden, awe-inspiring, and utterly terrifying arrival left everyone, cultists and onlookers alike, stunned into momentary, breathless inaction. 

The low-level cultists froze, their profane chants dying in their throats, their heads snapping upwards, their dark robes suddenly seeming flimsy and inadequate. 

Hope, which had been brutally extinguished in the hearts of the remaining civilians and the horrified crowd, flickered back to life.

The silence lasted only a few heartbeats. 

Then, as if a silent command had been given, the Silent Gale Hunters moved. 

They didn't charge; they flowed, fanning out with a speed that was a blur to most eyes with a lethal grace.

One moment they were still figures against the storm-cleared sky, the next they were among the cultists, phantoms weaving through the stunned, dark-robed figures. 

A cultist, his initial shock giving way to fanatical rage, raised a crude, blood-stained axe, his guttural cry meant to rally his brethren. 

A Silent Gale Hunter, a Windblade Duelist, a figure wielding twin blades in a reverse grip moved before the sound of his cry could fully dissipate. 

The Hunter moved like a storm-driven leaf, impossibly fast, their Silent Gale Armor seeming to ripple and distort, making them a difficult target to track. 

Two silvery flashes, too quick to follow, and the cultist simply crumpled, his axe clattering uselessly to the ground, dark stains blossoming on his robes where the Windblades had found their mark with surgical precision. 

There was no wasted motion, no brutality for its own sake, just cold, lethal efficiency.

Another Hunter, possibly a Gale Shadow specializing in stealth, seemed to melt into the shadows near the edge of the former ritual site, then reappeared behind two more cultists who were attempting to turn their crude weapons on the newcomers. 

Before they could react, thin, almost invisible wires, snaked out. 

There were soft, choked sounds, and the cultists collapsed, dark lines appearing on their necks as if drawn by an invisible hand.

The leader of the Evil God Followers, who had been untouched by the chaos and the sudden intervention of the Silent Gale Hunters, remained standing with the blood-soaked obsidian knife in his hands.

He was not bothered by the death of his followers, all his focus was concentrated on one figure, a woman, that was descending gracefully from the sky, followed by strong wind waves.

His head was tilted upwards, his gaze fixed on the sky, a strange, wicked smile playing on his unseen lips. 

He seemed to be waiting, anticipating something, or someone, with an unnerving calm amidst the carnage.

As the storm that the Silent Gale Hunters' arrival began to dissipate, the sky directly above the ritual site started to clear. 

The swirling clouds parted away, and from that clearing patch of sky, the woman began her descent.

She moved with an impossible grace, not falling, but gliding downwards as if on an unseen current of air. 

Strong waves of wind billowed around her, her long, dark hair and the edges of her equally dark, flowing robes whipping about her, yet she herself remained the calm eye of her own personal storm. 

She didn't have the overt, almost brutalist armor of the Silent Gale Hunters, nor did she carry any obvious weapons. 

Her power was palpable, a suffocating pressure that was different from the Hunters' cold focus, it was a vast, like the deep ocean or the endless sky.

The cult leader's smile widened as she descended. 

He made no move to attack, no gesture of defense. 

He simply watched, his entire being seemingly focused on her. 

The remaining Silent Gale Hunters, who had been efficiently dispatching the cultist and focusing on the Ferals, subtly shifted their stances, clearing a path, creating an open space in the debris-strewn street for her landing.

Her face was serene, beautiful, almost ethereal, but her eyes, the color of a winter sky, held a chilling, focused intensity. 

They were fixed solely on the cult leader. 

She seemed utterly unconcerned by the ongoing battle, by the dying cultists, the enraged Ferals, or the stunned onlookers. 

All her attention, was concentrated on that single, dark-robed figure and the pulsing, blood-fed knife he held.

The cult leader, in turn, seemed to acknowledge her arrival with a slight, almost imperceptible inclination of his shrouded head. 

He was not bothered by the death of his followers, or the destruction of his ritual.

Xu'er, who had been about to rush to Su Mu's side after the shockwave, froze, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. 

"Who is that?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the dying sounds of the skirmish.

Su Mu didn't answer. She, too, was transfixed.

 Her Empathic Siphon, which had been a raging torrent from the cultists' ritual and the battle, now felt a new, incredibly potent source of energy, a calm, deep, almost overwhelming power emanating from the descending woman. 

Although the energy she absorbed was very low, she could feel the difference from the chaotic, negative energy of before; this was controlled, focused, and unbelievably strong.

[Source Power: 91.2%] … [Source Power: 91.3%] … [Source Power: 91.4%]