To be honest, when Ghost Chief appeared, everyone had only one thought about the battle.
Pei Feng was finished.
Yet as time passed, as the two of them fought, the expressions on everyone's faces gradually began to change.
So strong!
Not Ghost Chief—Pei Feng.
Ghost Chief's strength was beyond doubt. He had proven himself two thousand years ago.
But how could that Pei Feng be this strong?
His swordsmanship was neither complex nor flashy. The three great sword intents of wind, fire, and lightning—looking across all the major sects, any who had cultivated the sword possessed no fewer sword intents than he did. In fact, they possessed far, far more.
Yet in his hands, those three simple sword intents seemed to have been watered with miracles, undergoing a tremendous transformation.
Simple sword moves, sword intents, sword forms—in his hands, at this moment, they were as flawless as an antelope hanging its horns, wondrous as if crafted by Heaven itself.
As sword cultivators themselves, whether among the million spectators outside or the disciples within the Heart Sword Mountain sect, all watched in rapt fascination, unable to tear themselves away.
Especially when Ghost Chief began to exert himself, truly going all out and forcing Pei Feng to meet him sword in hand, everyone's shock grew beyond measure.
Everyone understood one thing clearly: for a sword cultivator, holding a sword and not holding one were two entirely different matters.
It had nothing to do with divine weapons or sharp treasures, but with the sword itself.
To a sword cultivator, a sword was not merely a weapon. It was also an extension, an indispensable limb.
Those who had truly cultivated sword techniques, sword arts, and the sword path to a certain height understood this better than anyone.
Through the sword, they could even gain