A withered branch scored a crooked line across the ground, and dust slowly trickled along the mark. Chen Wuya still stood at the center of the high rock, the old scar on his palm still warm, while the Misaligned Force within him flowed on its own like a stream, no longer requiring his deliberate guidance.
He did not move.
Amid the pile of broken stones ahead, Blood Without Trace propped himself halfway up, a crack splitting his mask as his knuckles dug into the dirt. Tuoba Lie knelt on one knee, his left arm hanging limp, yet his right hand had already tightened around the broken hilt once more. Their gazes met for an instant, and killing intent flared anew.
Blood seeped from the gaps in Tuoba Lie's silver armor. With a low roar, he raised the broken blade horizontally, its blade aura gathering again—denser and sharper than before. Blood Without Trace brought his palms together, and bloody clouds churned like boiling water. A reeking wind swept up grit and sand, condensing them into spinning blades in midair.
Chen Wuya's breathing sank slightly.
He knew that although his previous palm strike had severely wounded them, it had not utterly crushed their will to fight. The true killing move often came after defeat had already begun to show.
He still did not raise his hand.
At that moment, a figure leaped out from behind the cover.
"Father, catch the sword!"
The voice was bright, carrying the distinctive drive of youth. Chen Xuan hurled out a wooden sword with both hands. Pale golden patterns covered the blade from end to end, as though it had been tempered over and over by some force. It was the sword father and son had gradually formed beside the campfire the night before, using the reversed