She formed a sword with her fingers, a casual flick of her empty hand conjured up dense masses of sword Qi a yard long in the air, raining down toward Yi Chen like a torrential downpour on banana leaves, accompanied by a succession of ghostly wails and demonic howls.
"I shall now explain to you, Daoist brother!" Wusheng Sword Mother's eyebrows inverted fiercely, her voice as chilling as eternal frost.
"The Sect Master's swordsmanship has improved yet again, a mere thought condenses Qi, gathering it into a sword, the sword moves and resonates, with such cultivation, this old one is far beyond comparison," praised the old man dressed in black and white Daoist robes, twisting the few sparse whiskers on his chin.
In his eyes, Yi Chen was already a dead man.
