Embroidering, at the Inn

Unless they were driven to desperation or facing a mortal enemy, no cultivator would resort to a technique that took both sides down.

The moment the scholar gathered all his energy, Wang Xian reacted.

He wasn't shocked, nor did a trace of pity cross his face. The scholar wasn't the first cultivator—or demon beast—to blow himself up before him.

He wondered what grudge this man held against his disciple, that he wanted to put Xiangxiang to death!

Or what exactly the general of Giant Dragon City was after, that he wanted to kill the Chen sisters in Lotus Town.

Could he be afraid Xiangxiang would return to Giant Dragon City and expose some shameful secret?

Or was the old man who had kidnapped Xiangxiang a demonic cultivator hired by the general?

At this life-or-death moment, as the little girl's master, how could Wang Xian worry about showing mercy to an enemy?

Ignoring the scholar's plea for death, Wang Xian put away his golden sword. A slender embroidery needle appeared in his hand.

He curled his index finger slightly, as if sitting beneath a tree in the courtyard to embroider a pair of mandarin ducks for Zijing. A dark cloud drifted over, about to block the sunlight, and he didn't like it.

Then, with the scholar watching, he kicked the headless corpse in front of him.

The corpse shot away. As the scholar stared dumbfounded, it crashed into the lake, sending water spraying high into the air and splashing toward the shore.

Caught off guard, the little girl let out a shriek.

But then something happened.

A sheet of water splashed over, making the scholar, who was about to blow himself up, freeze for a moment.

In a life-or-death struggle, victory often hinged on a single instant.

In the scholar's eyes,