Ba Zunan knew exactly how many pairs of eyes in this world were watching him.
Hua Changdeng, too, knew what sort of existence stood behind him, forever watching and urging him onward.
Both men fixed their eyes on what lay before them, neither caring for nor able to care for what was behind them.
Lingyu Mountain was gone.
This cup of wine on the Spirit Lake stone table, which had split heaven and earth into black and white, had been offered by Ba Zunan—and with a single question, it struck Hua Changdeng right in the heart.
"A handle..."
Everyone murmured, beginning to speculate what leverage the Three Ancestors held over Hua Changdeng that made him willing to serve as their vanguard.
After all, the Eighth Sword Immortal would not shoot arrows without a target. Every word he spoke must have been carefully considered.
Hua Changdeng said nothing. The faint oddity on his face quickly settled back into calm.
The golden goblet before him brimmed with wine. Everyone in the world had given Ba Zunan this courtesy, yet Hua Changdeng remained unmoved.
"What, Brother Hua? Afraid I poisoned it?"
Ba Zunan laughed even as he said it.
His surname was not Dao. He would not resort to such lowly tricks.
The ancient sword cultivators around Spirit Lake—Gou Wuyue, Feng Tingchen, Lei Shuangxing, Gu Qingduo, and the rest—had all finished his wine, giving him ample face.
Even Xiao Kongtong and Xiao Wanfeng, unconscious on the ground, had twitched their noses, awakened long enough to force down a sip, then passed out again.
Mr. Siren disregarded his severe injuries even more. One gulp sent the wine through his intestines and spilling from the holes in his body. He coughed up blood in reverse flow, yet waved his fan high and cried out soundlessly: