Perhaps there was a story between the Ghost King and that woman, but Black Snake had no wish to know it. Their story belonged to them alone.
Countless stories were born and died every day. No one could see or hear them all, and there was no need to know every one.
He simply had not expected Red Clothes to come in such a frenzy.
Resentment surged around her. Her seething bitterness was directed not only at the Ghost King; some of it spilled over onto Black Snake, blaming him for not waiting for her.
The Ghost King had gone utterly mad, holding nothing back, intent only on dragging Black Snake into death with it.
It secretly cast illusions again and again, only to find them completely useless. Whether they were phantoms of joy, anger, grief, pleasure, or desire, Black Snake ignored them all. Left with no choice, it abandoned the illusions it excelled at.
Red Clothes had gone mad too. She attacked the Ghost King without regard for her life, every frenzied strike a gamble with death, all the while demanding to know why it had murdered her entire family. Only Black Snake remained calm.
His mind stayed clear. Between each rise and fall of his sword, he could still calculate four moves ahead-the Ghost King's next step, the gaps between Red Clothes' attacks, and his own movements-keeping the perilous battle firmly in his grasp.
With Red Clothes keeping it occupied, he finally found an opening.
Black Snake began using sword moves that were more powerful but took longer to gather force.
Suddenly, a splitting headache struck, as though his skull were about to burst!
His Primordial Spirit was exhausted from the frantic calculations and constant expenditure, desperately needing rest. Yet a ruthless determination rose in Black Snake, and