The main hall of the Ning Clan, once a symbol of pristine elegance and quiet strength, still smelled of ozone and ancient dust, but the atmosphere within had shifted from the despair of near-annihilation to a state of profound, breathless awe.
Old Jian, the Sword Saint who had nearly seen his soul dissipate into the void, was no longer a flickering blue orb or a broken old man.
Instead, he was standing in the center of the hall, clenching and unclenching his fists with a look of manic intensity.
He began jumping up and down, his movements blurring with a fluid, terrifying speed that his old, flesh-and-blood body could never have achieved.
He stretched his limbs, feeling the way the artificial meridians within this new form hummed with a resonance that felt more like singing than the mere flow of Qi.
