The Reconnoitre General looked at the scene from afar. The winds of Jiangnan stirred as the gates of the border fortress opened, revealing the bustling movement of people within. It seemed defenseless, like a succulent piece of meat, ready to be seized by horsemen.
Yet no one dared to move.
Because of one man.
Because of one sword.
A wooden sword.
The General's Adam's apple moved up and down. Gripping his spear, he calmed his warhorse, eyes fixed on that sword—just hanging casually on the city gate's plaque, softly humming with the wind as its blade lightly touched the weathered city wall, making a gentle sound.
As if it was still a tree back then.
An old man sat atop the city gate, green robes fluttering, drinking alone.
Yet this army of millions did not dare to advance.
The Sword Madman.
Murong Longtu.
The most dashing figure in eight hundred years of the Sword Dao.
Come, come, I invite you to drink and to battle!
Gold cup, drink with you; white blade, give no quarter.
