"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—"
A series of faint sounds of rushing wind approached from afar as figures swiftly converged from every direction. They abruptly stopped before a rice paddy, revealing seven men and women of varying heights and builds.
Upon seeing the paddy, the seven of them respectfully cupped their fists toward it, as though some extraordinary figure dwelled within.
But besides a farmer, what extraordinary figure could there possibly be in a rice paddy?
At the very least, this paddy itself looked rather extraordinary. Any martial artist with a discerning eye could see that nearly every stalk of rice had been severed at the same height by the same blade technique, whole swaths cut down in a single stroke.
It was as though the farmer harvesting the rice held not a sickle, but a blade edge dozens of yards long, displaying astonishing control and precision over blade qi.
Behind that paddy stood a crude thatched hut enclosed by a bamboo fence. From the eaves before the house hung a blood-dripping, disheveled head.
When the seven saw that head, their pupils contracted slightly. Amid their shock, they felt even more admiration and awe toward their leader, who sat beneath the hut's eaves weaving a bamboo basket with complete concentration. Not one of them dared make a sound and disturb his great basket-weaving endeavor.
Though their leader appeared to be doing something as ordinary and crude as weaving baskets like a peasant farmer, he was actually practicing martial arts—training the subtle precision of his control over blade qi, just like the paddy he had harvested before them.
In their leader's own words—"My brother is renowned across the world; everyone knows him. I never see him practice much, yet his cultivation changes by the day, advancing a realm every month. Though Nie may