"Whew..."
Xiao Qian's steps faltered, and he planted himself firmly before the mountain gate.
His chest heaved violently, veins bulging slightly along his neck. The stale breath he exhaled instantly condensed into a cloud of white mist in the cold air.
"Aren't you going to stop me?"
Xiao Qian's low voice, its trailing notes tinged with mockery, echoed leisurely before the silent mountain gate.
He had actually stopped before the stone stele that bore the Misty Cloud Sect's centuries of glory and long history.
The stele was etched with the mottled scars of time, every groove seeming to whisper of the shifting winds and clouds of bygone days.
His gaze blazing like a torch, Xiao Qian slowly surveyed his surroundings before fixing his eyes on Ling Feng, a hint of provocation in them, as though asking, Do you dare?
Standing to one side, Su Yao gave Xiao Qian a radiant smile.
She gently raised her hand, pointing a delicate finger at the nearby stone stele. Her movements were graceful, her expression brimming with friendliness, as though Xiao Qian were not an opponent who had come to challenge them, but an honored guest from afar.
Ling Feng, however, seemed to have been swept into a war without visible gunsmoke, struggling with an agonizing choice.
His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white as winter frost, as though he might crush something the very next moment.
After a while, he slowly loosened them, only to clench them fiercely again. Like machinery beyond his control, his hands repeated the motion over and over.
The disciples Ling Feng had incited to rush down the mountain and stop Xiao Qian now lay sprawled across the ground like the broken remnants of a defeated army.
Their faces were exhausted, their bodies still covered