The blade was seamless. Not a single flaw marred its edge. The steel shimmered with shifting hues—at one angle a cool silver, at another, a faint undertone of jade and crimson sparks, remnants of the flames that had birthed it. The edge was so fine that even his sharpened senses could not catch its limit; it seemed less like metal and more like a line carved between heaven and earth.
When he tilted the weapon slightly, it hummed. A deep, resonant tone, neither harsh nor sharp, but dignified—like the low voice of an ancient elder acknowledging its place in the world. The sound sent a shiver through Tian Lei's arms, spreading into his chest.
He tested its aura with a faint surge of qi. Instantly, the sword answered. A faint arc of light leapt from the blade's tip, carving a hairline crack into the stone floor. Tian Lei narrowed his eyes. That had not been a strike—only a whisper of intent—yet the weapon had responded as if eager to cut.
