The sky was adorned with a full moon, its luminance suspended high, while the waters of the Wujiang River, stretching thousands of kilometers wide, flowed slowly eastward.
Tonight, the wind blew fiercely.
Although the river flowed swiftly, its surface was devoid of any large undulations, so tranquil that one could even see the moon's reflection upon it. On both banks of the Wujiang, however, over ten thousand people gathered—among them were commoners seeking excitement, as well as some masters of the Inner Family.
Everyone gazed with reverence at the figure above the Wujiang.
An Upper Immortal!
The black robe billowed freely, and that mane of black hair fluttered. Xiang Yang stood with his arms crossed over his chest, those sharp, cold eyes currently closed. Levitating in midair, he quietly awaited his opponent's arrival, a serene expression on his face, not a trace of impatience.
