Shui Wuhen's attitude took a sharp turn for the worse, as if he had truly flown into a rage. For a moment, the entire octagonal stone pavilion seemed to tremble and shudder, his powerful aura seemingly crushing the air itself.
There was once a saying circulating through Yongzhou's martial world: "When the Dragon King rages, heaven weeps rain," used to describe the tyranny of his might.
Xiang Yang could not say he was afraid, but he did grow tense. The muscles throughout his body quivered and tightened, storing force as he waited to strike.
Before Xiang Yang could reply, Shui Wuhen's gaze flashed. He joined his fingers into a sword and thrust toward Xiang Yang's chest.
It parted the airflow and ignored space itself, so fast it was soul-stirring. Its sword intent was like the surging great river beneath their feet, rushing onward, irresistible, yet also like an unbroken trickle, fine as a thread and never ceasing. It truly deserved to be called an excellent sword move.
Yet this move emphasized intent and momentum. It surpassed the swordsmanship of the vast majority of swordsmen in the world, but lacked force. It possessed only the realm, not the power.
The Dragon King's strength was praised throughout the world. Since he had not used any force, he was clearly testing Xiang Yang rather than seeking his life.
The instant his opponent moved, Xiang Yang had already reacted. He held his palm across his chest, bent his arm, and chopped outward. His movement was broad and sweeping, fierce and unstoppable, yet it carried the steady aura of a pillar standing firm in the torrent, a divine mountain ten thousand blades high. Though the vast sea might rage and flood, I alone stand unmoved.
This move likewise contained no qi or force. It was