Zhou Chen looked down at the Broken Sword in his hand, staring at the mirror-smooth break and the trajectory of the fracture tracing up the blade. He suddenly remembered the day five years ago when he first received Jinghong from his father. He had been thirty years old then, having just advanced to Sub-Saint.
His father had told him the sword was named Jinghong, drawing its meaning from the phrase "as graceful as a startled swan, as supple as a soaring dragon." True to its name, the blade was as fast as lightning and as light as a feather.
"Thank you, Father," he had said at the time. "I will not fail this sword."
But now...
Zhou Chen looked up at Xu Wuyi.
The young man had already retracted his spear and stood in place without pursuing. The spear tip hung toward the ground, its dark gold patterns slowly fading. His face remained entirely expressionless. There was no joy of victory, nor any pity for the defeated.
There was only calmness.
