The mist in the sky shatters.
The Qin Army on the battlements sees Mu Shanxue descending, like a cloud settling in the most narrow area of the terrain around, standing in Dragon Gorge Valley. On the ground ahead, many cavalrymen have fallen, but more cavalries are charging.
Wu Hua roars: "Stop, cease fire!"
Mu Shanxue carries the Tongchen Sword on his back, closes his eyes, and speaks leisurely.
"Little junior brother..."
His palm grips the sword hilt, the sword tassel knitted by his little junior brother hangs down, and the sunlight reflecting off the weapon casts a glow on his Taoist robe, resembling a cluster of snow. With closed eyes, he recalls the first time he was led up the mountain, his patriarch's hand caressing his forehead, and the voice from then resurfaces deep within his heart as he murmurs calmly.
"When attempting to relax it, one must first firmly stretch it; when attempting to weaken it, one must first strengthen it."
