If things were truly as Jing Jiu judged, and Nan Qu would not wake inside the coffin, then he was merely a corpse. But if he woke, he would be a half-immortal whose sword knew no equal. The choice seemed very simple.
Nan Wang turned and headed deeper into the mountains. The white cat was faster still, turning into a white streak and vanishing instantly without making the slightest sound.
Jing Jiu paid it no mind. This had been his suggestion in the first place, and he was not confident that the corpse inside the coffin really would not wake.
The morning sun rose higher, the sky grew bluer, and the mountain scenery became clearer.
The desolate mountain was not far from the sea, yet received little rain. There were few kinds of life here, far fewer even than in Cold Mountain.
Cold Mountain looked barren, but beneath the ground lay extremely rich fire veins and underground rivers, sustaining untold numbers of wild beasts and monsters.
Perhaps precisely because it was so monotonous, however, the autumn scenery here was all the more beautiful and intense. Golden leaves and fiery red leaves lined up neatly according to elevation, like bands of color laid down by a paintbrush.
Jing Jiu withdrew his gaze and looked at his right hand.
Back then in the Western Sea, Jian Xilai had cut his body in two with a sword strike from dozens of li away, then injured Big One with another casual strike.
At the height of his cultivation these past years, Jian Xilai truly deserved the title of Sword God, unlike in earlier years when Cao Yuan had somewhat eclipsed him.
Nan Qu was his master, his cultivation and strength even more unfathomable.
But none of this should have been a problem.
Liu Ci