With a single sword strike, victory and defeat had already been decided.
Yan Congke forcefully suppressed the churning injuries within him, his eyes filled with disbelief. His sword had been so fierce and resolute—move, intent, qi, momentum, nearly flawless in every respect. How could such swordsmanship, such a sword technique, lose? How had it lost?
Yet reality was this cruel. His swordsmanship was indeed superb, but Meng Zhao's was greater—far, far greater than his.
In breaking down the Soaring Heavens Sword's soaring ascent into blue clouds and incorporating it into his own traits, he had indeed traveled far. But Meng Zhao had gone even farther. In his study and application of that sword strike, he was stronger.
Meng Zhao had defeated Yan Congke with one sword strike. It should have been cause for jubilation, yet he remained exceedingly calm, as light as drifting clouds and as gentle as the breeze.
Holding his sword reversed behind his back, Meng Zhao paced up to Yan Congke and slowly said, "In this contest of swords, it seems I won. Yan Congke, are you convinced?"
Of course Yan Congke was not convinced. He suspected Meng Zhao had not merely competed with swords, but had used his incomparably powerful internal true qi to empower his blade, thus defeating him in one strike.
Yet Yan Congke cared about his pride. A loss was a loss. At worst, he would do a few things for Meng Zhao. It was not as if he would die; he would merely lose a little freedom.
Meng Zhao looked at Yan Congke. Seeing that he remained silent, with a trace of resentment still in his gaze, he smiled calmly. "Let me break down this sword strike for you, so you may understand why you lost and I won beneath that single