But the second strike failed. The flying sword turned at a sharp angle in midair and stabbed at the Vermilion-Clad Figure's back again, but he had already brought his sword behind him, receiving and redirecting the blow to parry it away.
As though some great curtain had been lifted, everything abruptly returned to normal. The patter of rain beside their ears, the thick fog drifting through their vision-Zhu Gaoyang stood on horseback, having just suddenly sensed the scene change.
Far out on the river, Nie Shangheng landed on the tip of a mast. He covered his throat with one hand, seemingly still caught in the sensation of having his head severed by a single stroke.
Pei Ye turned his head. A middle-aged man.
Plain cloth clothes, cloth shoes, eyebrows like ink beginning to fade, eyes like late-autumn waters. He looked somewhat sickly, but not like a consumptive young master; rather, his sturdy body seemed to have suffered much grinding hardship. He carried the air of a wanderer of the Jianghu all over him, distinguished only by a profound sorrow.
"Already this weak, and still you draw your sword." His hand remained on Pei Ye's shoulder as he gazed out over the river. "Treading ice and courting danger-one day, your own head will suddenly fall off too."
Above the river, the Vermilion-Clad Figure stood suspended in midair, like a lonely ghost hung there by something.
Only then did Pei Ye see that his body was incomplete, something wholly unapparent amid his ghostlike speed just now. Two-thirds of his right leg were gone, and his left arm had vanished entirely, leaving only an empty sleeve fluttering in the air.
The Vermilion-Clad Figure sighed. "Ten whole years of life for that one thrust. A terrible loss, a terrible loss!"
As he spoke, his