It was the time when frosts were harshest, under the cold moonlight.
The howling winter wind swept across the open field, blowing through the hair of a group of black-clothed people in the yard, cutting against their scalps like knives, bone-chillingly cold.
The third, fifth, and eighth seats of the Tianhe Gang lay sprawled on the ground.
Those struck by palm strikes were spitting blood and unconscious, their lives hanging by a thread, and those hit by swords were beyond dead.
All the black-clothed people fixed their gaze on the young man in the deserted courtyard, sizing up the situation and not daring to act rashly.
With such swordsmanship, plus Master Fang Sheng's indication, it must be true.
They had naturally heard of the reputation of the Sword God of Xiaoxiang.
But with Quzhou and Hengyang a thousand miles apart, who would have thought they would encounter him here!
