The rain is still falling.
The wind is still blowing.
In the bitter cold wind, light rain drifts...
"Boom!"
The somewhat dim sky was split by a clap of thunder.
Brilliant thunder turned into a streak of lightning, tearing through the sky, creating a terrifying fissure.
"Crash!"
The drifting light rain suddenly intensified, falling heavier and heavier.
Standing in the storm, Ye Xuan's hair draped over his shoulders, the black blade in his hand stained with blood, then washed by the rain.
Beside Ye Xuan's feet, corpses lay in droves.
"A mere Nascent Soul Realm, dare to block my path? West Yan Mountain Sword Sect, Qiu Mountain Shaolin, Western Sichuan Tang Clan, you underestimate me too much, Ye Xuan."
Ye Xuan chuckled softly.
His handsome face, splattered with blood, white hair like snow tinged with red—all bloodstains.
And not far in front of him stood over a hundred people.
