Anyo and White Fang had both honed their blades on the battlefield, born solely for killing. Their sword force was minimalist and swift, clean and decisive, without a single wasted movement.
But when these two blades finally met, it came down to whose speed was greater and whose control of the blade ran deeper. Seizing the initiative was therefore especially important.
The blade light White Fang had built to its peak surged toward Anyo without a moment's pause. Wherever it passed, it was like walking through countless towering blades, yet carried the impact of a mountain torrent bursting forth. Wave after wave of blade light formed before him, pouring toward the point where the blades converged in an unstoppable advance.
Anyo's spirit body swayed faster and more violently in the air, its illusory outline growing fainter, like a blade of grass battered by a storm, seemingly about to vanish at any moment.
Yet his gaze remained utterly calm, as though victory were already in his grasp. He sent out the last of the blades in his hand, and all the blades finally converged in midair, tracing an indescribably profound path that seemed both unremarkable and endlessly changing.
White Fang's advance was finally checked. An invisible force blocked his sword hand, dragging his entire body backward until he could no longer move.
The harder White Fang struggled, the tighter his body was bound.
The dragon's roars and tiger's howls in the air grew clearer. Layers of blade light seemed to form two illusory figures seated on either side of White Fang, holding his arms in a death grip. Even his head and limbs were trapped within winds of differing shapes.
"What kind of swordsmanship is this?" White Fang knew he had lost, but his defeat was so inexplicable that it went