"The crimson of Calamity Water is the blood of our Human Race."
For fifty thousand towering years, the mountain toppled in a single night.
Huo Shiji, Peng Chongjian, Kou Xuejiao, You Jingzhong, Zhang Jian, Xu Mingsong—these names had once thundered in every ear, carrying immense weight throughout the Southern Regions.
But like old trees struck by blight, they rotted and died without a name.
Yu Xiaochen, You Qiongying... disciples of that younger generation had once vied in brilliance and displayed their radiance, possessed of futures others envied.
Yet like fallen leaves, they had all been swept away by the wind.
Once thirty-two years had passed, if no problems emerged among the tens of thousands of Blood River Sect cultivators, all parties would naturally grant them some measure of compensation.
But time could not be reclaimed.
Just like the Blood River Sect—once parted, parted forever.
"Master..." Amid sword-light that soared into the heavens, Ning Shuangrong spoke hesitantly.
Si Yu'an stood with his hands behind his back, thatch grass hanging from his waist. His robes fluttered, shattering the winds of heaven. He said lightly, "You may have compassion. But it may only remain in your heart."
Kunwu had returned to its sheath, yet its sword cry remained among men.
Clang clang clang~
The longsword that had flown from his hand traced a dispirited silver arc through the air before crashing to the ground, bouncing and ringing repeatedly.
"Pick it up. How can a swordsman lose his sword?" The woman who spoke had delicate features and held twin swords in her hands. Though her posture was casual, her sword edge cleaved through the qi of yin and yang, bearing the natural air of an expert.
The one who had been slashed into the air first was a boy of around fourteen