Two Swordsmen

A Liang rose to his feet. A horn sounded from afar across the battlefield—the Savage World had withdrawn its troops.

Both sides would clear their respective battlefields. When the next great battle came to an end, perhaps there would be no need for a horn.

A Liang made his way to the pavilion atop Dragon Slaying Cliff. He loosened his grip on the empty wine flask in his hand, spun around once, let out a howl, then kicked the flask out of the pavilion. It smashed onto the training ground below.

The battle had come to a temporary halt. For a time, the sword cultivators atop the city wall returned home one after another like migratory birds flying north. Streak after streak of sword light made a picturesque sight.

Seclusion, healing wounds, sword forging, drinking.

The dead were dead. The sorrow of those who survived would be dissolved bit by bit over wine bowls—whether in hearty gulps or small sips—at the drinking table.

A Liang had forgotten which great figure had once said at a drinking table that a person's belly was the finest wine vat in the world. Old friends and old tales were the finest original brew; add the bitter gall, then blend in the joys and sorrows of parting and reunion, and one could make the finest wine, with flavors without end.

After some thought, he slapped his thigh. That great figure was none other than himself.

Being too self-effacing was truly no good. He needed to change that.

Before long, a group returned from the city wall on their swords toward the Ning residence. Ning Yao suddenly dove sharply and landed at the front gate, where she spoke with the old woman.

Chen Sanqiu, Diezhang, Dong Huafu, Yan Zhuo, and Fan Dache continued straight toward the