The longsword of Refined Iron was embedded into a tomb at an angle with only a few inches visible from the outside. Its hilt was full of black rust, and the blade itself had been chipped in several areas with all manner of cracks threading throughout, as though it had gone through a great battle. Despite all of this, the sword was still covered in a layer of malice that could not be taken lightly. The sword was like an aged soldier who'd just returned from his hundredth battle; his gaze might be dim, his body filled with wounds, his stature weak as though he could fall over at any moment, and yet the malice contained within could not be looked down upon at all.
When Fang Xing looked towards this Refined Iron longsword, he could sense the extraordinary power contained within as well as its mournful cries over days and nights. It felt as though it was a masterless spirit waiting for someone to take it away and bring it back to the battlegrounds after waiting for so long.
