War was the final resort, when all that could be said had become impossible to say, and one could only speak through blade and sword.
Jiang Wang had said all he had to say today. If no one would listen, then let his sword cry out.
Now, draw the sword!
The youngest True Lord in all of history faced the Central Empire's mightiest Celestial Master.
Longing against the Xiyi Sword.
People saw Jiang Wang standing there, blood still dripping, his body like the spine of a sword.
"Bravo!"
Dou Zhao, seated in the very last row, stood directly atop his chair. His head was held high, his hair flying, utterly heedless of anyone else. It was as though the world had put on this play for him today, all parties merely actors upon the stage, while he alone was the detached lord of the audience beyond it. Who cared about the grudges and entanglements within the play, its causes and consequences? He stood when he wished to stand, sat when he wished to sit, and cheered when he wished to cheer.
That Jiang fellow was usually rather irritating, but today he truly cut a fine figure. Why should Dou begrudge him a word of praise?
A smile rested at the corner of Chongxuan Zun's lips. He said nothing, only raised a hand to brush at the hem of his snow-white robes before leisurely rising to his feet. From beneath the stage, he watched those upon it: the turbid waves of the Mortal World, the rolling Sea of Bitterness, white robes like a boat, dark ink like the pupils of an eye. Seeing Jiang Wang like this today was as sweet as drinking nectar—he suddenly wanted a drink.
Huang Sheli sprang straight up, crossing the broad spectator stands to land behind