The desolate moonlight was mirrored upon the vast boundless lake, laying a rim of silver along the rippling waves; the shimmering light pierced the porthole and fell into the cabin, mottled shadows and gleams flowing like water.
That radiance seemed to brighten the cabin, refracting across the rust‑stained blade. The sword lay flat upon soft silk; the silk was violet, edged with gold thread, exuding a trace of mystery, and the sword as a whole seemed to be shedding a faint, glimmering glow.
Yet through countless years it appeared long accustomed to such nameless, silent slumber, no longer showing its former visage before the world, so that it had lost its keen edge, and let its mottled body narrate the ancient passage of time.
"Broken sword," gray‑white letters hovered above the blade, visible to nearly everyone who possessed a system.
But only in Fang Hong's eyes was there a slight difference; what he saw had one more word than the others:
"Broken holy sword."
