As Xiang Yang spoke and Fifth Zuirong and Ning Ke, mother and daughter, listened, an hour slipped by in the blink of an eye. Yet they had heard only a small half of Xiang Yang's more than ten years of life.
Xiang Yang was not merely recounting things hollowly. He was also cherishing the past, and even his state of mind rose slightly. The Knife God, too, stirred restlessly, awaiting an opportunity to break through.
Just then, a bleak, mournful flute sounded from beyond the walls of the small courtyard. Its melody was lofty yet winding, seemingly imbued with endless tenderness. Along with it came a grim and fierce blade intent, vast as though a demon god had descended into the world.
The moment that blade intent emerged, though it had not yet drawn near, the entire courtyard seemed to twist. Space and light tangled and staggered; spiritual energy churned and overturned. Had anyone with weaker cultivation suddenly encountered such a change, they would likely have vomited blood and been injured, their mind exhausted to death.
"Zuirong, Zuirong, are you there? Listen, I learned another tune today. Let's perform it together—it will surely become a tale worthy of immortals. Come out quickly."
Together with the flute and blade intent came a man's impatient urging. Beyond the urging, his voice carried an intense longing.
Fifth Zuirong did not move when she heard it, merely sighing softly as a trace of sorrow appeared between her brows. Ning Ke initially flew into a rage and was about to speak, but then she caught sight of the seated Xiang Yang. Her expression changed at once, turning pitiful and plaintive as she transmitted her voice to him.
"Xiang Yang, the person outside is utterly hateful. He keeps setting his sights on my mother. Go teach