Min Ning held the sword but muttered, "No, this isn't right."
"Indeed, it isn't right."
"Zhu Yu?" She suddenly responded, catching Min Ning off guard, both surprised and delighted.
Still holding the sword, Min Ning didn't dwell on why she hadn't answered earlier but quickly asked, "Tell me, what isn't right?"
"Every single one who died here was no ordinary master of the Sword Dao. It's open and straightforward swordsmanship—how could their imitation lack tenfold resemblance?" Zhu Yu said at a slow and steady pace. "Wu Buxu's sword is not rooted in the swordsmanship itself."
Min Ning tightened her grip on the sword and asked anxiously, "Then where is it rooted?"
"In the Dao," Zhu Yu's tone carried a trace of complex sentiment. "Skill reaching the realm of Dao—it requires obsessive determination to achieve the utmost pinnacle of technique. They could mimic the swordsmanship, but could they mimic the obsession?"
