Even the cold wind on Cangwu Peak is worth reminiscing.
"Master, what grade am I now?"
With a thick-skinned face and shameless demeanor, he leaned closer. Zhou Yitang reached out and said:
"Fifth-grade."
"Finally, fifth-grade," he paused and glanced at the sword at her waist, "May I touch your sword? I want to perceive its essence."
The one-armed woman frowned slightly, hesitated a little, but still drew her sword out and held it horizontally before him.
He carefully stroked the sword's body, feeling the restrained and awe-inspiring Sword Intent flow through his fingertips, his gaze at that moment was as if in reverence.
Zhou Yitang let go, and the sword fell into his hands. He wielded it with a dance, bringing chill to the hall. The Sword Intent seemed to flow through each of his meridians. He danced vigorously, but the Sword Armor sensed something amiss in the subtleties.
