In Haitang's hand, the blade was like the wind, twirling around Fan Xian. He jumped and leaped and crouched and fell prone, assuming all kinds of strange and comical positions. Between each pose, he used all of his formidable physical control to string the postures together.
The blade stuck into the mud just by his left year, the grass by the little finger of his right hand, and fell onto a dewdrop next to his throat.
He was impossible to hit.
