Fengyang, the Yang Family.
Scroll in hand, Yang Yinghao walked slowly to the shore of Lotus Pond. After looking around, he was just about to call out when he swallowed the words.
Atop the rockery in the middle of Lotus Pond, Yang Tiansheng stood beneath the scorching sun in loose white training clothes, continuously channeling his power through his hands. Blazing Sun True Qi, like roaring flames, gathered between his palms without dispersing, swelling and subsiding...
What made Yang Yinghao swallow the words on the tip of his tongue was the sight above Yang Tiansheng's head: eight gleaming swords circled slowly around him as he worked his hands, as nimble as swimming fish. Every so often, a sharp or clear sword cry rang out.
He gazed fixedly at those eight swords, his eyes filled with wonder and pride, but also a barely perceptible trace of loss and melancholy.
That tangled feeling was probably what an old father felt when he wanted his son to shoulder the household and bring glory to their ancestors, yet did not quite want the boy to become the wave that washed him onto the beach too soon.
For the growth of the next generation often meant the aging of the last...
A little later, Yang Tiansheng, who had been channeling his power for some time, suddenly clenched his right fist and shouted fiercely, "Gather!"
The eight gleaming swords abruptly drew together at his command, forming a thick, massive sword that spun above his head. Their shrill, urgent cries made Yang Yinghao, watching from afar, worry that all eight might suddenly fall...
His concern was clearly justified. No sooner had the eight swords gathered into one than an invisible recoil forced Yang Tiansheng's clenched right fist open. The united swords flickered and swayed, teetering on the