Whoever was searching for a flying sword in the Great Snow Mountain, and whatever sect had half its members searching the Great Snow Mountain for one... that was someone else's business.
In any case, Shen Le had no intention of spitting out something that had fallen into his hands. Not to mention that he could feel the utterly genuine resonance between this flying sword and the armor on his body...
So this sword was the final missing piece of the armor's Artifact Spirit, was it?
Shen Le held the sword in both hands, his gaze sliding from hilt to tip, then from tip back to hilt, over and over again. Fragments of memory drifted down like snowflakes, and a smile slowly curled his lips.
"Old friend... it was you."
He spoke softly. In his palm, the hilt trembled faintly as streams of light flashed rapidly across it, as though it had endless words it wanted to pour out to him.
On the inner side of the guard was a deeply sunken, teardrop-shaped dent, nearly splitting the right half of the guard in two. Shen Le remembered it: when he had given the Blood Venerable a thousand-year kill, filthy blood had sprayed out and landed on the guard.
At the center of the blade, a deep black mark pierced through from the edge to the spine. Shen Le immediately recalled striking the sword against the Blood Venerable's curved horn, the treasured sword letting out a shrill wail.
Looking at the tip against the sunlight, it even seemed slightly translucent.
Shen Le would never forget how, within the illusion, he had repeatedly tempered the treasured sword with true qi. In the end, only this tiny bit at the tip had begun transforming from something tangible into something that had form but no