Ding Xiang gripped the spear shaft. Moonlight shone on his hideous bronze Demon Mask, and the eyes hidden behind it held an indifference that disregarded everything.
He spun Ning Xiong's iron spear once in his palm. The shaft hummed, but Ding Xiang did not attack immediately.
He was waiting for the injuries from his secret art's backlash to settle a little.
More than that, he was watching to see what other trump cards this old man, who likewise had jet-black hair and an aged face, still possessed.
"Interesting," Ding Xiang said quietly.
The spear tip quivered. The terrifying pressure of late true astral cultivation rolled toward Yi Yang like an invisible tide, slowly bearing down on him.
The night wind in the woods of Clearwind Ridge stopped, and the dead leaves ceased tumbling.
Holding Mysterious Abyss, Yi Yang felt a mountain-heavy pressure closing in from every direction. Even his breathing grew labored.
At the instant that pressure climbed to its peak-
Ding Xiang moved. The iron spear in his hands tore through the night like a streak of gray lightning.
There was no needless flourish, only the purest, most direct thrust.
A visible vortex of astral energy surrounded the spear tip. The air shrieked as it was pierced, and the tip shot straight toward Yi Yang's chest.
Yi Yang's pupils contracted as the thrust came at him.
Yi Yang shifted half a foot sideways, letting the point skim through the fabric outside his soft armor. Before he could turn his saber, Ding Xiang pressed his wrist down and swept the shaft across his left arm.
Bang!
Astral force shredded his sleeve. Yi Yang felt as though a charging wild bull had struck his left arm head-on, and he was knocked two steps backward despite himself.
A piercing numbness shot through