The campfire at the defensive position crackled, sparks leaping into mid-air before extinguishing—much like the fleeting fates of the dying souls inside the Black Ice Cave. Ye Fan gently laid Chǔ Hóngzhuāng upon a tree stump covered in animal pelts, the warmth and chill of the Golden Silkworm Gu still lingering on his fingertips. When he turned his head, he saw Su Qingxue wiping her zither strings with a handkerchief embroidered with twin lotus flowers—the dried blood on the corner of the fabric was left from when she had blocked a poisoned flying needle for him earlier.
"Everyone is here." Lin Zhaoyue's voice was like a sword drawn from its scabbard, crisp with the sound of cracking ice. She stood with her hands clasped behind her back before the stone table, the red cord of the Primordial Sword at her waist swaying in the breeze—he had tied it for her himself just the day before, saying, "A sword has a spirit, and a person must have something to hold onto in this world."
Ye Fan raised his eyes to look around. On the left were the assassins in black from Hanmei Pavilion, their leader, an elderly matron, nodding respectfully toward Su Qingxue; on the right stood young disciples of the Cangwu Sword Sect, swords hanging at every waist, their gazes following the retreating figure of Lin Zhaoyue; further back were the twenty-three surviving clansmen of the Poison Sect, several elders among them with red-rimmed eyes—they had all witnessed the devastation inflicted upon Chǔ Tiànb…
Chapter 218