An incredibly soft, yet distinct, clicking of a tongue suddenly echoed from an empty space not a few dozen steps from Yue Rong.
The sound wasn't loud, but it struck Yue Rong's heart like a clap of thunder.
He whipped his head around, his bronze-colored pupils instantly shrinking to pinpricks as he stared in disbelief at the source of the sound.
There was clearly nothing there.
The next moment, a bizarre transformation took place!
In that empty patch of air, countless currents of wind converged and took form.
A figure, without any warning, materialized with perfect clarity!
He wore simple, dignified robes. His posture was ramrod straight. His face was serene, and he even wore a faint… smile.
With his hands tucked into his sleeves, Qi Yun smiled at Yue Rong.
His relaxed and effortless appearance was the most glaring contrast to Yue Rong's current tragic state—bathed in blood, leaning on his saber, and on the verge of collapse.
