Wild Horse was growing weary, but he refused to stop killing. He could no longer find a worthy opponent. Again and again, he drew his sword, turning each strike into a way to pass the time. It made him want to talk.
His "tongue" was in someone else's mouth.
She stood beside Wild Horse, holding a small oil lamp. Its faint light revealed bodies strewn every which way, as if a tornado had swept through. She held her head high, excitement and a hint of pride in her voice. "Dragon King, I know you're here. Why not show yourself and fight, so we can end the duel you and Wild Horse began all those years ago? This time, there's no need to circle around..."
A swordsman appeared silently and attacked Wild Horse from behind. He had complete faith in his swordplay—indeed, he worshipped it. That unshakable conviction had helped him kill many people in the dark underground palace, so many that he believed he could challenge Wild Horse.
Everyone who died by Wild Horse's sword had thought the same.
Wild Horse turned slightly, and the sword in his hand pierced the attacker's body. The movement was so simple it had no form at all, like an executioner beheading a bound prisoner.
Wild Horse had finally found that feeling. The scene of his family being slaughtered when he was a child returned before his eyes. He felt no sorrow. Instead, he imagined himself as a Golden Peng Assassin, those men drawing and withdrawing their blades with practiced coldness, utterly indifferent to the lives they snuffed out—as if they were gods high in the heavens, toying with all living things.
This was the swordplay Wild Horse named Destroying Life Sword. In the Moonlit Swordplay He Nu had taught him, the words "destroying