On the riverbank, the water rushed by swiftly, the wind was gentle, and the sun was bright.
On the ninth day of the twelfth month in the seventh year of Hongxi, it was clear, with not a cloud in the sky.
Zhou Li stood shoulder to shoulder with Tang Wan, while Zhu Qianyun held the knife on alert. Yun Baibai's jade hands were slightly clenched, her eyes filled with worry. Cen Zhu, a scroll tucked at her waist, leaned against a willow tree, watching everything beside the riverbank. The Taoist priest held talismans in his hand, his eyes shimmering, ready to unleash their power.
And atop that rock, Qianhu's body, as solid and imposing as a steel tower, sat firmly. His left hand grasped the long knife plunged into the pebbles of the riverbank, the back of the knife reflecting the intense midday sun and casting a beam of light onto the river's surface.
The reflection in a pair of eyes as fierce as a tiger's, too, was the river.
"Lord Qianhu, is there anything else you need to prepare?"
