The succubus's laughter was soft, like a whisper made by a stream flowing over pebbles.
When she smiled, the corner of her mouth on the half of her face exposed behind the black cloth lifted slightly, curving into just the right arc. Her eyes narrowed into crescents, and the faint glimmer deep in her pupils flickered faster and faster, as though something were burning within.
Then she did something the old man never expected... she sheathed her sword.
No, not sheathed—it was more like she let go.
The cracked spirit sword slipped from her hand, its tip pointed downward as it silently sank into the bluestone beneath her feet.
She did not care.
Her gaze remained fixed on the old man—on that sword scar, on those iron-hard brows, on that severed arm.
Her eyes were as calm as a pool of stagnant water, yet beneath that dead water lay an undercurrent powerful enough to devour everything.
The old man watched her let go, watched her abandon her sword, watched her stand there empty-handed and completely defenseless.
He frowned.
Confusion, vigilance, a trace of nearly imperceptible unease, and an even greater, deeper fury that seeped into his bones.
He did not understand.
Why had she abandoned her sword? Abandoning it meant severing some kind of connection.
Why would she do that?
The old man had no time to think.
Because at the very instant she discarded her sword, she did something even more unbelievable—she allowed the old man to shift his footing and slowly close in.
She did not move.
She stood there, her robes fluttering softly in the night wind.
To Daoist Wu, this game of cat and mouse was truly no fun.
From the very beginning, he had never taken the succubus seriously.
In Azure Dragon Town, he was