Qian Ying watched Ma Xianglong's receding figure vanish into the wind and snow. The corners of his mouth curled up slightly, his expression indescribable.
He swung the Xiantian Short Sword in his hand and found that it was more or less the same as the one he had lost, with no major differences.
Of course, although these Xiantian Short Swords were weapons specially made for each Xiantian Martial Artist, they were standard-issue equipment and did not differ much. The only difference was that the Xiantian Martial Artist's name was engraved near the hilt, meant to distinguish the sword's user.
As for whether he would have to return the short sword in his hand to the Ma family after getting out, Qian Ying had never intended to do so. The moment he handed over that pill, he had already decided to make this sword his own.
Whether Ma Xianglong would ask him to return the sword later remained to be seen. Wouldn't it be enough to leave that fellow, even all the Ma family's Martial Artists, here? Once everyone was dead, there would be nothing left to say. Dead men settled their accounts, didn't they?
While Qian Ying was still lost in thought, the tent's windproof flap was lifted, and a gust of frigid air rushed inside, making him feel a chill. He looked up and saw that it was Qian Wantong.
He did not immediately ask anything. Instead, he looked through the small transparent window in the tent flap at the raging wind and snow outside and the gloomy sky, feeling somewhat concerned. As a Xiantian Master, ordinary low temperatures should have been nothing to him.
Even in freezing air of minus thirty or forty degrees Celsius, he would not feel cold without circulating his Xiantian Qi. Xiantian Martial Artists