Not long after.
A fast horse appeared abruptly.
The world was desolate.
The wind and snow filled the sky.
The young man riding the fast horse wore a white robe, holding a Three-Foot Green Peak Sword, with his hair and eyelashes already frosted with ice.
Following the blood trail on the ground, he rode into the primordial forest without hesitation.
During the whole process, aside from the sound of hooves, there was only the occasional cry of an eagle flying overhead.
The young man was Chen Yang himself, galloping while gazing at the end of this path forcibly opened.
The cold wind.
The strong wine.
The Murderous Sword.
On this journey, who knows what lies ahead?
Chen Yang's mind was a void, almost merging with the world in the midst of wind and snow.
After Chen Yang passed by not long.
Another warhorse arrived.
A man.
A horse.
A blade.
Sweeping through the dense forest, moving like the wind.
