Heart-Demon Deathmatch
Aha... That familiar scent.
With both hands raised, making a gesture that looked half like a stretch and half like an embrace of the sun, Fu Qian strolled through the Sword Pavilion's fourth floor, restored to its original state.
It wasn't an illusion. Every one of the Sword Participation Institute's prized collections was intact, including the one that had vaporized half his arm.
Fu Qian stopped in front of the familiar short sword and examined it closely.
Honestly, its appearance was utterly unremarkable compared to the others—and so was what lay beneath the surface.
Standing here now, it was nothing but an ordinary blade of iron. There was no hint of the Godslayer power it had wielded just moments ago.
Everything seemed like nothing more than an illusion, if you ignored the fact that someone still owed him his hand back.
There was nothing else to see. Fu Qian looked away and examined the still-bare end of his elbow.
He had casually tossed the Incense Axe into the Warehouse earlier, so his other hand was empty now, too.
He thought back to the days when the Sword Participation Institute had welcomed him as an honored guest right here. The acting head of the Apocalypse had climbed the tower to meditate, using the Three-Sword Style with both hands and his mouth. That imperious scene still seemed vivid.
In the blink of an eye, all that remained was a collection of severed limbs. And yet the world around him remained unchanged. How could that not make one sigh?
Dreamlike flowers in the air—why grasp at them?
The feeling he'd had when he tearfully parted ways with Old Man Weilong earlier had, it seemed, been right after all.
Exile.
A technique he'd experienced once in Akons had appeared before him again.