In a moment of sudden fright, the golden light on the sword rolled back, breaking apart the thunder striking down from the sky, advancing and retreating rapidly, it had already retreated to a distance.
A flicker before his eyes...
Clearly the figure in the green robe opposite was still far away, yet inexplicably, there was a persistent feeling that the sharpness of the sword, like cutting gold and breaking jade, remained at the center of his brow, impossible to evade.
'It's an afterimage illusion...'
Pei Ziwen realized, standing there, Chen Ping still wore a smile, his eyes mocking.
And around him, there were layers of illusions, each wielding a sword, each strike deadly.
He couldn't tell which sword was real and which was false.
Panic-stricken, he roared: "Sixth Uncle."
Just two moves exchanged, from mental attacks to changes in sword technique, Pei Ziwen already felt powerless.
