Above the sea of clouds at the edge of the Fairyland of Yaochi, the rising morning sun cast long, slanted shadows of everyone. Li Wuhen held the ancient sword named "Guixu," its blade dim and dark, with only a faint, ethereal glint weaving along the edge, as if capable of swallowing light itself. At the pommel's end, a tiny groove fit precisely into the link of the First Generation Patriarch's sword tassel, seamless and exact.
The air was so silent that only the subtle churning sound of the sea of clouds remained. Nangong Lie stared fixedly at the sword, the drunken flush on his face long since faded, leaving only a complex pallor mixed with shock, pain, and disbelief. He opened his mouth, his throat dry, and finally uttered only a few broken syllables: "That... that voice... was it really Master?"
Li Wuhen did not answer. He merely lowered his gaze to look at the sword in his hand, his fingertips slowly brushing across the cold bronze spine, as if feeling the pulse that had lain dormant there for ten thousand ages. The Guixu Sword did not respond to his touch; it remained as quiet as a piece of unyielding iron, save for that suffocatingly heavy and murderous Sword Intent, pressing down on everyone's hearts like an invisible deep-sea undercurrent, so much so that even the Husky tucked its tail, not daring to breathe heavily.
Chapter 63