A tornado seemed to have swept through the dark, narrow cavern.
The gale coiled around Chu Xisheng's body and wound around his Blood Refinement Lightsteel Blade.
Every slash of his blade now raised a keen, blue-green wind blade ten feet long. Wherever it passed, sinews and bones broke, and heads parted from bodies.
Blue lightning also blasted out continuously in all directions from the heart of the storm.
Hot blood surged through Chu Xisheng as he threw himself body and soul into the slaughter.
The black blade reaped lives like a scythe.
Its ever-changing shadows were like a storm petrel darting through a tempest, weaving freely and effortlessly.
One burly mounted bandit after another fell helplessly at his feet. One Martial Cultivator after another, with cultivation as high as Ninth Rank or even Eighth Rank, had his throat severed.
Showers of blood and gore splashed in every direction, staining the stone walls on either side of the cavern red.
With every step, he slew a man; with every swing, someone lost his head.
In just twenty breaths, the crowd before Chu Xisheng had shrunk by a third.
Nearly thirty-five corpses with severed heads or missing limbs lay sprawled on the ground, their blood pooling into a red stream.
At first, these mounted bandits from White Cloud Stronghold had scrambled over one another to attack, holding nothing back.
Yet after this brief interval, terror appeared in all their eyes. Their feet unconsciously retreated, instinctively distancing them from that storm and that arc of black blade light.
"Fuck his ancestors! This one's been hiding his strength too!"
Ge Ping'an snorted angrily, veins bulging on his arms.
His pupils, however, contracted slightly, revealing his wariness.
He was secretly alarmed.
This man's cultivation had clearly been only at Ninth Rank just now, yet the