As Zhao Bai spoke, he took out Sleeve Cloud Wrap. Ancient cloud motifs wound around the gauntlets like freely growing trees, radiating vitality. Though they had endured a thousand years, they had not changed in the slightest.
The Inch Heart Fist struck.
Durandal felt a coiling force that dissolved every attack into nothingness. Zhao Bai did not throw a single punch, merely defended, and none of her unleashed force landed on its target.
"What kind of fist technique is this?"
Durandal frowned. It seemed somewhat like a martial art that transformed yin and yang, one she had never learned.
She had studied every martial art in Schicksal's arsenal. This seemed to be a branch of the Taixu Divine Sword, something ancient—so ancient that no one remembered that part of history. The twisted muscles and restrained force were strange in that they were meant for defense.
The person who created this fist technique must have been gentle and powerful.
Durandal judged people by their techniques, seeing the greater through the smaller.
This was the Taixu Divine Sword.
Though concealed beneath a balanced, peaceful fist technique, it was undoubtedly the power of the Taixu Divine Sword. Durandal also circulated her sword heart, and the dark yellow lightning on her gauntlets gradually gained traces of sharpness.
Its edge was fully revealed.
Compared to Zhao Bai's seamless mastery, she was still lacking somewhat.
She charged forward, but Zhao Bai remained where he was. His hands traced circles, his eyes slightly closed, exuding an indescribable calm.
Durandal was locked in place.
A pitch-black sphere appeared in the sky, like a perfectly round black hole. It slowly spun as it gathered above Durandal's head. There was no killing intent or sharpness; everything was as tranquil and peaceful as Zhao Bai's expression.
Fire above fire, the light