Each Has Their Own Background

Sinews and bones not forged of iron or stone, the sword was honed into three feet of autumn-water sheen.

Between the fingers, clouds were lightly drawn by half an inch; beneath the wrist, a full moon was hidden in the dark.

Unsheathed, it made no dragon's cry or quake; its reflected light shone back upon the man in white.

The sword tip angled toward the ground, and Zhou Qiubai did not assume any opening stance.

Zhou Qiubai simply stood there in silence, and he was already the center of the world.

After all, his grandmother had once said that the world revolved around oneself. If he thought of it that way, his heart would feel content.

Seeing this, Yang Guyun also slowly lowered the Returnless Spear from his shoulder.

The spear stretched nine feet, a body of black iron; blood-like veins faintly showed, like dragon tendons.

It had once plucked the starry river and brought down the lone moon, never allowing the mortal world to know this heart.

On the road of no return stood men who did not return; once the spear was thrust, all became the past.

Twelve men, twelve streams of soul power lit up at the same instant.

Lu Qinghou bore the brunt of it, his soul rings lighting up one after another.

Yellow, yellow, purple, purple, black, black, black, black—utterly standard, seemingly without anything unusual.

Wen Buyan's sword lit up right after his.

His soul ring configuration was inferior to Lu Qinghou's; even his sixth soul ring was still a thousand-year one.

Luo Nanxing's sword was three inches shorter than both of theirs, and his Soul Power Level was also slightly lacking.

He was the swordsman with the shallowest cultivation among the twelve, yet he stood at the very front.

Mu Qianshan carried a heavy