The two men fell silent. For the first time, something other than dead stillness surfaced in the young Death Sword Guard's eyes—a faint glimmer. He said,
"If Meng Zhao does not die young, he will surely become a great figure who illuminates the Divine Land in the future, perhaps standing shoulder to shoulder with the many legendary myths. And for him to die by my hand will also be the strongest proof that I once existed in this brief life.
Who I am today is who you will be tomorrow. I hope you, too, can find such a person to prove your own existence."
He was truly very young, yet there was an indescribable weathered quality to his tone. Perhaps one did not need to experience all the myriad faces of life to be considered worldly and seasoned.
Compared to people like them, who fought death at every moment, those who had lived for decades might not necessarily possess any greater insight into the ways of the world.
The worth of a person's life was not determined by its length. Better quality made it all the more splendid.
The leading Death Sword Guard sighed. People like them should not have had feelings, or even emotions, yet he could not help feeling pity for the youth before him.
For if he had not been chosen to become a Death Sword Guard, but had instead entered some sect to train in martial arts, then with the youth's talent and natural gifts, he would certainly have achieved something. Perhaps he would not have measured up to Meng Zhao, but he would have been far happier than he was now.
In truth, being selected as a Death Sword Guard already proved that one possessed outstanding talent and aptitude, along with a certain trait compatible