Under the night sky, a pair of master and disciple embraced each other.
"Practice your swordsmanship with peace of mind."
Ye Qinghong bit her lip tightly.
Her earlobes flushed red.
Enveloped by that domineering aura, she felt like she was about to faint.
Fang Yang, likewise in discomfort, tried his best to keep a straight face in order to maintain his dignity as a master in front of his disciple.
Grasping the other's hand, he swung his sword.
The stroke was swift like a startled swan darting through a gap, skimming through the night.
It drew a beautiful arc.
So stunning was it.
Leaving shallow traces on countless bamboo leaves.
"Disciple, have you memorized this sword stroke of your master?"
Fang Yang's voice was gentle, his arms still around Ye Qinghong, his tone so doting.
Ye Qinghong nodded slightly, her mind blank, not even sure what she was doing.
All she felt was an unbearable heat inside her.
