The wind was still blowing, and the tattered strips of cloth along the grass shelter's edges swayed gently. Chen Wuya had been sitting against the table for only a short while when he heard footsteps approaching from afar.
He slowly rose to his feet and turned his gaze toward the camp entrance.
Three Heavenly Sword Sect disciples approached side by side. The man in front had a cold, stern face; the sword at his waist bore the two characters "Heavenly Sword," and its tassel was crimson as blood. His steps were steady. Without speaking or offering a salute, he merely placed a hand on his sword hilt, his eyes locked directly onto Chen Wuya.
Bai Zhi's brows drew tight as she said in a low voice, "Seventh-rank cultivation. He's one of the sect's elite inner disciples."
Chen Wuya did not respond, only rolling his wrist. A dull pain flared from the old wound along his left ribs with the movement, as though an iron wire were crawling beneath his flesh. He took a deep breath and pressed the pain down into his dantian—Misaligned Practice Connects to Spirit was best at borrowing momentum. The harsher the adversity, the better it could reverse-engineer the paths of true qi.
The man had already drawn his sword.
A flash of sword light, and he was already rushing in close.
The first stance of the Meteor Sword Art, "Star Falls on Cold River," thrust straight for Chen Wuya's throat, so fast it nearly left an afterimage. Several of the watching disciples instinctively retreated half a step, clearly recognizing the power of this sword art.
Chen Wuya did not move.
Only when the sword tip was three inches from his throat did he tilt his head aside to evade it. At the same time, his left