Swoosh~~
The sword was drawn from its sheath, a single stroke, and the air seemed to be perfectly sliced by a white trail that abruptly stopped at Xue the Skillful Hand's forehead, perhaps less than a millimeter away.
That sharp, bitterly cold tip hovered above his brow, as if it touched, yet didn't touch.
The sound of the sword qi whooshed, causing the hair on the sides of Xue the Skillful Hand's face to flutter, and the grass behind him to bend in unison, rustling loudly...
The sword before him was fiercely cold and cruel, while its wielder was as cold as frost and his eyes as deep as icy pools, devoid of emotion and desire.
A fine layer of cold sweat must have formed on his forehead, his legs trembling uncontrollably...
The others were as silent as cicadas in winter.
