'He recovered this quickly?'
Fang Han stood with his sword drawn, his gaze fixed on Yuan Ye, who had pulled away. His heart sank.
'As expected of a Second Grade Martial Artist. He recovered from the Spiritual Shock so fast that my follow-up attack failed.'
"You've actually comprehended Sword Intent?"
Yuan Ye steadied himself and looked down at his chest.
A faint sword mark scarred his black robe—a remnant of that last strike's lingering power—but it hadn't broken the skin.
He raised his head, his gaze landing on Fang Han.
The initial underestimation and casualness in his sharp, eagle-like eyes had vanished, replaced by a trace of solemnity.
"No wonder Yuan Zhan died at your hands."
A moment ago, the Spiritual Shock from the Sword Intent had sent him into a momentary trance.
