Hidden deep within the valley, shrouded by the natural formations of swirling fog and spiritual interference, lay something ancient, untouched by human hands for centuries.
A relic of a legendary cultivator.
The Sword Tomb of the Lone Sword Demon. Arguably the best swordsman to have lived in the world's known history.
They had glimpsed it before but hadn't ventured inside.
Night had fallen too swiftly then, and their bodies still ached from the brutal clash with the serpent; its venom had clung onto their bodies like tar.
Now, bolstered by 'reinforcements', they returned. Time to rob a tomb.
Solwing, the Golden Crowned Immortal Crane, plummeted from the high clouds, wings slicing through the clouds in a heart-stopping descent. Nysalea's breath caught, her arms tightening around Riven's waist, her soft cry swallowed by the roar of the wind.
Her heart pounded from the fall and from the weight of his warmth against her.
