When Cui Yigeng drew his sword, the entire bamboo sea seemed to fall silent.
All that was sharp, unsettling, and painful, quieted at this moment.
Everything that had been cut by the sword was intimidated by it.
The pair of eyes belonging to Cui Yigeng, neither too big nor too small, looked at Jiang Wang no differently than when he looked at the bamboo.
It seemed as though he was exploring something, yet also as if he was merely immersed in his own world.
His hand holding the sword was exceptionally steady.
You get the sense that even after ten or twenty years, with such a stance, neither his sword nor his hand would deviate in the slightest.
The process of him drawing the sword was very specific.
In visual perception, it appeared remarkably slow.
His five fingers lowered, one by one.
His knuckles began to exert force, slender tendons surfaced on the back of his hand, standing out prominently.
The wooden sword handle seemed to grow from the palm of his hand.
