For those last few dozen breaths, both of them were holding on through sheer willpower. Shen Fei's swordplay had fallen apart. He was merely swinging, blocking, and swinging again mechanically, his mind utterly blank. Only his hands and eyes still tracked his opponent's movements by instinct.
Xiao Ning'er's spearwork had become chaotic too. The patterns in the Spear Manual had long since vanished without a trace. She thrust on instinct alone-stabbing, lifting, sweeping, parrying-with every movement weighed down by a heavy sluggishness.
Then Xiao Ning'er fell first. After a sword thrust missed, she failed to check her momentum. Her knees buckled, and she staggered forward two steps. She planted her spear against the ground to prop herself up, but it did not hold her. Her body tipped sideways, and she fell onto her side on the bluestone ground.
Shen Fei lasted a few breaths longer. When he saw Xiao Ning'er fall, the sword in his hand dropped half a foot, its tip almost touching the ground. He stood where he was and gasped for breath, his chest heaving as though it would burst and his throat painfully dry.
He looked down at his hand. His right palm was drenched in sweat, his fingers trembling slightly, and his grip had left the Fine Iron Sword's hilt wet and slippery.
He tossed the sword onto the ground, where its blade struck the stone slabs with a crisp clang. Then he started toward Xiao Ning'er.
His legs were barely working either. His knees threatened to buckle with every step, and he felt as though he were walking on cotton. Even when his feet landed firmly, he could not feel the ground beneath them.
He took a few steps, reached Xiao Ning'er's side, and crouched down, reaching out to help her up by the