"Chen... Xin..."
The night wind swept aside the loose strands of hair falling over Li Zhexian's forehead.
In a complicated tone, he spoke the name of the white-clad figure.
Chen Xin stood atop the edge of the roof, his white hair and white robes fluttering gently in the wind.
He lowered his eyes toward the youth below, a nearly imperceptible trace of gratification flickering deep within them as he said calmly:
"Zhexian, can't you even call me Teacher anymore?"
Li Zhexian's lips parted and closed.
Yet that form of address remained lodged between his lips and teeth, never leaving his mouth.
After all, he was only a thirteen-year-old boy.
Memories surged back like a tide...
That day, Ning Rongrong had abandoned him and left.
And his teacher had not said a single word from beginning to end.
That night, his heart had been tangled with sorrow. Only strong wine had washed down his throat, while the resentment filling his chest howled forth as sword qi.
He had been utterly alone, with only his sword and wine for company.
Chen Xin...
The guide who had led him onto the path of a Spirit Master.
Yet he had been stingy even with a single word of comfort.
How could Li Zhexian not hold it against him?
"What brings Senior Chen Xin here?"
Li Zhexian suppressed the turmoil in his heart, his tone as placid as water.
Chen Xin said nothing more.
He slowly extended a hand.
With that motion, an ancient sword hilt appeared out of thin air and fell into his palm.
Segments of an ancient, lustrous white blade materialized one after another, eventually forming a long sword measuring four feet and three inches.
Seven blood-red patterns wound across the guard like flowing blood, proclaiming the name "Seven Kill."
The moment