Wen Qingye found himself drawn toward the ancient bridge. With every step, he could feel a powerful pressure, a faint but pervasive aura. He finally confirmed that this pressure was slowly emanating from the bridge itself.
As Wen Qingye drew closer, he saw that both sides of the stone bridge were engraved with the figures of twelve women. With varying expressions and graceful, captivating postures, there were twenty-four beauties in total.
And in the very center of the bridge, a sword was embedded, half its length plunged into the structure. It was perfectly centered, not off by an inch. The sword seemed even more ancient than the bridge itself, its appearance more primitive, more weathered by time.
The exposed upper half of the blade was covered in ring after ring of cracks. The lower half was lodged firmly in the bridge, where it seemed to have rested for countless years.
"What a fine sword!"
