The wind along the barren ridge turned dead, thick, and suffocating.
Sword Emperor stared at him, and although he was fuming, he reigned in his temper.
His weathered knuckles, scarred by three thousand winters of slaughter, loosened slightly against the coarse hemp wrapping of his iron chopper.
The veins along his thick neck bulged like knotted ropes, his teeth grinding together with a harsh, grating crunch that could be heard over the whistling draft.
In his long life, no greenhorn had ever dared to stand five paces before him and demand that he scram.
Yet behind that golden-haired youth stood the shadow of three mad women and the boundless war fleets of the Shen Clan.
Even a wandering Supreme had to weigh his pride against total annihilation.
He forced his dry, raspy voice down, speaking through clenched teeth. "Very well, you can have her. But the treasure, I must get it."
Haoran simply smiled.
