Amid sword blossoms raining down from the sky, Jiang Wang finally came face-to-face with Ning Shuangrong.
Even completely immersed in the world of swordsmanship, he had to admit that the smile before him was truly beautiful.
Joy brimmed in her eyes, flowed across the corners of her lips and the tips of her brows.
She was sincerely delighted—for an old friend she had never met, for a kindred spirit in the world of swordsmanship.
Of course, you would feel the brilliance within that smile, and of course, you would be moved by this seamless, heaven-born sword.
The gorge wind trembled through Ning Shuangrong's hair. At this moment, her flying dark tresses, her fluttering hems—every detail seemed to expound the mysteries of the sword.
And within this wondrous world of swordsmanship, amid countless possibilities, the Autumn Water Sword rose like a solitary peak, pointing west with a single finger.
This style: Ascending the West Tower Alone!
Of all the perilous, strange, and precipitous peaks in the world, none rose and fell like the human heart.
Regrets from years ago always made one unable to bear looking back.
Sorrows from years later always came without warning, flying in from beyond the heavens, unnoticed by anyone.
This sword was too perilous, too strange, too sudden.
Jiang Wang had fought countless battles and set foot on battlefields more than once. From nameless mountain bandits to marquises and dukes of great states, he knew not how many opponents he had faced—yet he had never seen a sword like this.
It was clearly within the reach of his gaze, yet it had slipped beyond his sight.
It should have come for his throat, but its position was off by a fraction.
There were thirty-six vital points across his body, yet every one of them turned cold!