As golden sunlight spilled from the eastern horizon, the thick purplish-red mist began to thin and slowly disperse. It grew weaker as the light intensified, like a rainbow after rain-uniquely beautiful, yet fleeting all the same.
Pain, numbness, spasms, and countless other sensations flooded Qin Zihui's feverish mind that instant. His eyes, even his face, seemed to age considerably, and the bitter twist of his lips seemed to mock everything he had experienced over the past dozen years.
He could not believe it. He refused to believe that he had truly lost, and in the most desolate, devastating way possible. He would not even see tomorrow's sun.
His gaze fell on the blood-red blade, yet he seemed not to be looking at the sword itself, but at the light enveloping its edge, as though the most precious thing he had always overlooked was slipping away within it.
More than twenty years of memories rushed through his mind like flowing water. Exquisitely vivid scenes unfolded one after another: his parents, companions, former love, siblings, playthings... his hometown, the general's residence, army camps, treasure vaults, horse-viewing grounds...
The complicated look in Zeng Mu's eyes lasted only two seconds before disappearing. Gathering his thoughts, he twisted his wrist sharply. The blade hummed and spun with a rumble like a stone striking a drum. With a wet spurt, beads of blood formed a curtain, spreading like red cloth over his face and Yetos's.
His strength vanished completely. His body felt so light, so insubstantial, as though it had never existed at all. Like a blank sheet of paper, everything had ceased to exist.
Even the tangled sensations of pain disappeared. Qin Zihui's aged eyes became utterly hollow. He felt that he was finished, completely and utterly finished.
When the thick, ink-black shadow of the