He charged at her, a long-handled crescent-shape blade in his grasp.
The broadsword slashed down ferociously towards Jing Yiren's head.
Despite such danger, Jing Yiren's delicate hands playing the zither did not stop for an instant.
Just as the blade was about to cleave onto her stunningly beautiful face, it halted abruptly, a strand of her hair touching the sharp edge of the blade.
Immediately, the strand of hair severed, dropping onto the hem of her gown scattered on the ground.
"Aren't you afraid of death?" The man's voice was gruff, hoarse, and to some, utterly unpleasant, yet it embodied a certain rugged and robust charm in this physique.
Jing Yiren slowly raised her eyes, her somewhat pale face looking up at the fierce and demonic man on the horseback wearing a Yaksha mask.
"I fear! I fear every kind of death, just not dying for my country!" exclaimed the twelve-year-old girl, her juvenile voices contained a congenital pride.
