Betrayal

"Xiang Yang, die."

Wang Qing, clad in blue and wielding a longsword, tapped the ground with his foot and came riding the wind, sword in hand. His movement was graceful without sacrificing speed. As he leaped before Xiang Yang, his legs lashed out like whips—contracting, snapping, hooking, stabbing—every variation bursting with immense force under the support of his profound inner cultivation.

Lei Mian excelled at defense, Wang Qing at offense. This leg technique had been forged from the essence of the martial arts of fifteen leg-technique masters he had slain in the past. In terms of variations and mastery alone, it was truly no inferior to the leg arts Xiang Yang had displayed during his battle with Cui Ming on Nine Bamboo Mountain.

Yet in one regard, he fell short of Xiang Yang. Though his inner power was deep, his control over it was somewhat crude, unable to reach the realm of meticulous precision. His strength was scattered rather than pure; his leg force looked fierce and overbearing, its transformations inexhaustible, but it was really all form and no substance.

Of course, that was how Xiang Yang saw it now. His martial realm had already reached a mysterious level beyond the reach of ordinary postnatal martial artists. It was not that Wang Qing was truly hollow beneath the surface.

At least, before meeting Xiang Yang, Wang Qing had swept through all before him. His name, Hundred Transformations and Thousand Illusions, had shaken an entire region. It was not that he was insufficiently strong—only that before Xiang Yang, he could not remotely be called strong.

With a flick of his finger, a sharp blade aura hissed forth, as though a slender golden knife had grown from his finger. Light and elusive, it flowed on without end, completely abandoning the heavy path