In an instant, the black-clad figure had already appeared like a ghost before him, a flash of cold light as the gleam of the blade rushed straight for Yang Zhenshan's throat. At the critical moment, Yang Zhenshan's spear tip arrived first despite being launched later, the spear body quivering, emitting a buzzing sound, akin to a nimble silver snake, thrusting directly at the black-clad figure's chest. The spear tip cut through the air, producing a sharp whistle, as if it wanted to tear through the ink-like night.
"An inch longer, an inch stronger."
Before the blade could get close, the long spear in Yang Zhenshan's hand already trembled out a touch of green spear light, like a green lightning bolt, carrying an unstoppable momentum, straight toward the black-clad figure's chest.
This thrust of the spear was as quick as a shooting star catching up with the moon, a sharp whistle ringing in the air.
