Di Ling'er did not suspend in mid-air but headed to the battle arena. The martial artists from the Phantom Race had long washed the battle arena clean of any bloodstains. A ring on Di Ling'er's finger lit up as she retrieved a wooden table and stool as she sat on the latter. She placed her zither on the table, raised her head, and smiled.
Although Di Ling'er wasn't considered an absolute beauty, the airs she carried with her were considerable. She had a sweet kind of aura like that of a neighbor's daughter. At this moment, a light breeze fluttered her dress as her beautiful hands started to play on the ancient zither; there was something moving about that scene.
Ding-dong!
