Bian Ruxue raised her head slightly.
What she saw now was the young man before the campfire, his smile gentle and warm.
Yet she felt that, though his smile had not changed, an immense distance seemed to have opened between them.
But the feeling vanished in an instant, as though it had been an illusion.
She thought of the sword.
Her heart, drifting restlessly like duckweed, suddenly seemed to find somewhere to anchor.
She thought of the pinnacle of the Sword Dao, of that ultimate, legendary sword art.
"Brother Hao," she said softly, "you're more gifted than I am. Perhaps you'll reach that place before me."
"Not necessarily."
Li Hao spread his hands slightly. "You've seen for yourself. I don't even have a sword."
"..."
Bian Ruxue froze, then gave a wry smile.
A swordsman who carried no sword.
Then he was no swordsman at all.
Yet she still could not forget the exquisite sword strike Li Hao had unleashed during his fierce battle with Li Tiangang.
With swordsmanship so consummate and sword intent so vast, why did the person before her care so little about swords?
It seemed he had been this way since childhood.
Brother Hao... what do you actually care about?
Just then, a figure drifted soundlessly down from the treetops and landed beside the campfire, interrupting Bian Ruxue's thoughts. The confusion in her eyes cleared at once, and she swiftly looked over.
She saw an old man in a green robe, his hair and beard snowy white. His hair was tied in a casual topknot, with an Old Wooden Hairpin thrust through it at an angle.
He sat down unceremoniously on a stump beside the campfire, fanned the aroma of roasted tiger meat toward his nose, and clicked his tongue.
"Hardly any seasonings, yet you still