But the next instant, that spear broke through everything again, driving straight down from above.
Water was immensely heavy. People often forgot this, because of its softness, its compliance, its eternal support of everything. But Zhu Gaoyang knew that feeling well.
He had grown up beside rivers and learned his arts in Dongting. As a boy, he had been a naked, slender little jiao amid the ripples, reclining on the waves with a sword and a pair of trousers, able to spend an entire day alone by the water.
Every stretch of land had its own scenery, but water everywhere was often the same. So Zhu Gaoyang felt a deep familiarity now, even affection: the crushing pressure, the water cold against his skin, the pitch-black light, like that time in childhood when he had dived deep alone, intent on touching the bottom of Dongting.
What had he finally seen that time?
Zhu Gaoyang held his sword crosswise. The still, cold, heavy water suddenly churned violently, as though a gale had swept through it. At the center of everything was that straight spear. More than ten meters of water had done nothing to diminish its might. It struck Jade Tiger again with a deep, muffled sound.
Yang Juhu's yellow pupils looked monstrous in the water. He drove down fiercely again, and a matching force arose in Zhu Gaoyang's chest at the same time, knocking Jade Tiger askew.
Zhu Gaoyang twisted his waist with tremendous speed, but the spear still tore a horrifying gash in his side.
Blood spread through the water, rank with its metallic scent.
Once again, Zhu Gaoyang clearly sensed the flesh and bone beyond his control.
The Feng River Envoy appeared behind him like a ghostly swimming fish, his cold blade sweeping past. Zhu Gaoyang handled swords more