Moonlight spilled like water across the wilderness outside Spirit Dawn Town.
Yan Hui stood with his sword in hand, his robes snapping in the night wind.
The succubus stood thirty yards away, her expression indifferent, as though she had never considered him worthy of notice.
"Is that all you can do?" Her red lips parted slightly, her tone dripping with mockery.
She had not even drawn her sword. She simply stood there.
Moonlight shone upon her face, lending that peerless beauty an eerie pallor, like a phantom that had stepped out of the underworld.
Yan Hui did not answer.
Not long ago, he had still been Young Master Yan Hui, the man Wang Xian had shot down with a single arrow.
Within the secret realm, atop the snow-capped mountain, he had believed he had already touched the pinnacle of swordsmanship.
Yet Wang Xian's iron arrow had come whistling through the air, shattering both his pride and his sword intent.
That arrow had not merely pierced his chest—it had destroyed his sea of consciousness and crushed every shred of his confidence.
From then on, he had wandered the martial world like a homeless dog, fleeing the humiliation brought by his former glory.
Until that mysterious iron fragment fell into his hands.
He was reborn.
And he regained his pride.
But pride was one thing; the shadow left by Wang Xian's arrow remained like a thorn buried deep in his heart. No matter how strong he became, he could not pull it out.
He knew that unless he defeated Wang Xian with his own hands—or killed him—that thorn would remain there forever, stabbing him awake whenever he returned to his dreams at midnight.
Tonight, at the inn, he had entwined himself with that woman, thinking that one night of passion might let