"Retreat?"
The corners of Lin Xuan's lips curled up, revealing a row of white teeth. Murderous intent blazed in his eyes. "Why should I retreat? I just thought killing people barehanded was far too slow."
He held out a hand. "Does anyone have a good sword?"
"What?" Duan Zhengming froze.
"I said, lend me a good sword." Lin Xuan raised his head to look at the Mongolian prince in the distance and said coldly, "Today, I'm going to cut off that Mongolian prince's head and kick it around like a ball."
Duan Zhengming was intimidated by the towering killing intent emanating from Lin Xuan. Once he came back to his senses, he hurriedly untied the sword at his waist and offered it with both hands.
"This sword is called Fixed Light. It is a treasured sword passed down by the ancestors of the Dali Duan Clan, a national heirloom that can slice through iron like mud and sever a hair with a puff of breath!"
Shing!
Lin Xuan drew the sword.
A blade light like a pool of autumn water instantly illuminated the dim surroundings. Faint dragon patterns seemed to flow across the blade, its chill biting to the bone.
"Good sword!"
Lin Xuan praised it, then flicked the blade with a finger.
Clang—
The clear, resounding ring of steel was like the cry of dragons and phoenixes, echoing throughout the battlefield and overwhelming even the surrounding shouts of battle.
With the longsword in hand, Lin Xuan's entire bearing abruptly changed.
If he had been a towering mountain moments ago, then now he was an unparalleled sharp blade drawn from its sheath, his edge fully exposed and painful to behold.
Sword in hand, he walked step by step back toward the center of the battlefield.
He leaped into the air