The dusky sky trembled.
A gale howled low through the city.
Amid the rolling dust and sand, Zhou Ping walked forward along that road, step by step, empty-handed.
The cries rising and falling around him pierced through the whistling wind and reached his ears.
"Slay gods...?"
He murmured to himself.
He raised his right hand and gently placed it over his chest.
There, a glass-like radiance flowed across the surface of his skin, growing brighter and brighter.
Within his heart, some long-sealed emotion stirred restlessly, as if it were about to break free of its shackles and surge forth.
That emotion was called love.
When had he begun to lose hope in this world?
When had he stopped loving this world?
When had he begun to reject this world?
Zhou Ping did not know, nor did he wish to remember. He had chosen to seal those memories deep within his heart and let them become things of the past.
But now, the fire in his heart burned ever brighter.
In the past, though he had acted many times to help Great Xia avert disasters, it had mostly been because of the chivalrous spirit he cherished.
He believed that a Sword Saint should protect the people, so he did.
That was duty, not his heart's desire.
But this time was different.
This time, he had truly heard their voices.
Those two Night Watchmen, those three children, and the tens of thousands sleeping within the city all seemed to be saying:
"—Great Xia's Sword Saint, please slay the gods!"
Like the tolling of a temple bell, that voice drowned out every other sound and echoed through Zhou Ping's mind. In his heart, the nearly exhausted Sword Intent swelled at an astonishing speed!
Some admired him, some trusted him, and some needed him.