The Sword of Right and Wrong

The instant Feng Yanran's spirit sword pierced Murong Wan'er's chest, she forgot one thing.

She had already tried this once before.

And back then, Murong Wan'er had merely spat out a mouthful of blood.

In a flash of lightning and flint, Feng Yanran's sword plunged into Murong Wan'er's chest.

She could hear the sword pierce Wan'er's heart, and even hear the sound it made as the heart ruptured.

Yet Murong Wan'er still shed not a single drop of blood, nor did she let out a single anguished cry.

Just as everyone thought Murong Wan'er was about to suffer a grievous injury,

a snowflake suddenly blossomed on her chest.

In Wang Xian's eyes, it was as though the plum tree before him had suddenly burst into bloom with one flower bud, then two. His heart blossomed with delight.

The snowflake blooming on Murong Wan'er's chest looked sacred and pure.

It was just like that day by Brightmoon Lake, when she had borrowed a lotus petal from the lake and continuously nurtured it within her chest.

From autumn to winter, only that streak of divine radiance in the heavens could rival the splendor of this instant.

When Feng Yanran's Sword Qi met the petals on her chest, it was as if dozens, even hundreds, of sword auras burst out from within her.

Yet in the eyes of everyone before the Son of Heaven's Hall, it looked as though a firework had blossomed from the red-clad woman's chest.

The firework was too beautiful, dazzling and brilliant, making it impossible to look directly at.

By rights, Feng Yanran's cultivation was more than one level higher than Murong Wan'er's.

But Wang Xian had given Feng Hao a pot of spirit wine, allowing the old and the young to break through their realms before the battle.