When Cui Yigeng drew his sword, the entire sea of bamboo seemed to fall still.
Everything sharp, restless, and piercing fell silent at this moment.
Everything wounded by the sword was cowed by it as well.
When Cui Yigeng looked at Jiang Wang with those neither-large-nor-small eyes of his, it was no different from how he looked at the bamboo.
He seemed to be probing something, yet he also seemed merely immersed in his own world.
The hand with which he gripped the sword was exceedingly steady.
You felt that even if he maintained this posture for another ten or twenty years, neither his sword nor his hand would deviate in the slightest.
The process of drawing his sword was exceptionally tangible.
It appeared remarkably slow to the eye.
One by one, his five fingers settled into place.
The bones of his fingers began to exert force, slender veins rising across the back of his hand, each one standing out.
The wooden sword hilt seemed to have grown from his palm.
As he drew his sword from its bamboo scabbard, it was like pulling bones from his own body. His blood, his persistence, and the countless days and nights soaked through with his sweat had long since been forged into the blade.
At that moment, Jiang Wang even thought of Zhao Rucheng drawing the Son of Heaven Sword atop River Viewing Terrace.
What kind of sword was this!?
The very act of leaving its scabbard was like it had already brought a person's whole life to an end!
And the long sword, once drawn, was merely proclaiming that result.
For ten years, twenty years, since the days of childhood... autumn frost and spring moon, summer wind and winter snow—through every experience, Cui Yigeng had practiced only this one sword.
Not