As spring neared its end, atop the high cliffs of Tianzhu Peak, the east wind blew mist and drizzle in his face.
The fine rain was dense and soft, soaking into Zhao Rong's skin and heart.
His spirit circled back, and with a casual grasp, Zhao Rong tilted the tip of the sword downward, rounded his arm, reversed his wrist, and with rapid swordplay twisted and turned before striking again!
Whoosh whoosh whoosh!
It was like gusts of wind passing through the fog, and the urgent sounds were like knives and swords being fiercely ground in the gale.
Grinding the clouds, a reverse grinding to butcher them!
"Swish~!"
The rapid sword strikes continued!
Drops of rain were cut by his longsword and, following the momentum of the sword, shot out in all directions, piercing through the mountain mist and striking the surrounding cliff walls, creating a sound like a lively ditty.
