Zhou Qiubai borrowed the force to flip backward, landing steadily thirty feet away.
Yang Guyun planted his spear and stood tall. When their gazes met, both saw the gleam in the other's eyes.
"Not bad," Yang Guyun said.
"You're no slouch either," Zhou Qiubai replied.
Yang Guyun drove his spear into the ground, took off his outer robe, and tossed it aside. He wore only a black inner shirt, his muscular contours especially distinct beneath the moonlight.
He drew a deep breath, gripped the spear shaft with both hands, and yanked it free.
"Again."
This time, Yang Guyun struck first.
He strode forward, dragging his spear behind him. The spearhead scraped the ground, scattering trails of sparks.
As he neared Zhou Qiubai, his body abruptly soared upward, and his spear swept from below to above, trailing a semicircular arc of black light.
That black light resembled a waning moon rising from the sea, incomparably fierce.
Rather than advancing, Zhou Qiubai retreated. He lightly tapped the ground with his toes and slid diagonally away, the White Clothes Sword held across his chest as its blade trembled softly with his movement.
The black light brushed past his hair and slashed fiercely into a short pine behind him.
The pine was uprooted in an instant, rolling down the Lower Cliff with a dull crash.
Zhou Qiubai's sword momentum did not stop. Following the path of the black light, he turned, flicked his wrist, and thrust backward at Yang Guyun's ribs.
The sword was as light as nothing, yet so fast it made hearts tremble.
Yang Guyun had no time to bring his spear back in defense and could only drop its butt downward.
The sword tip struck the spear shaft with a crisp ring.
Borrowing the force of that thrust, Yang Guyun retreated,